Wartime Distraction
by Snape's Nightie
Summary: When Kingsley needs some escapism from the atrocities he faces, he turns to Severus for help and something interesting develops. But what will happen now the war is over? SSKS SLASH. AU since HBP.
1. Receiving orders

Kingsley Shacklebolt was having a bad week. Not that it was unexpected for a Ministry auror to find himself exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally during a war, but Kingsley was now beginning to feel disturbed by the sheer world weariness lurking inside him. Alastor Moody, with his all-seeing-eye and decades of experience, had pulled him into his office the previous day and with gruff sympathy had told him to get drunk, get laid and get some new perspective, before it started eating him away from the inside.

"Is it that obvious," Kingsley smiled wryly at his superior.

"To me it is," he clapped the younger man's shoulder. "I'm not having a go at you, lad. Just a piece of advice from a grizzled old wizard. You're a fine auror and a good man, I don't want to see you fall apart. We lost the kids, that's a crying shame and a blow for the Light, but that means the rest of us need to be twice as good."

The kids. Kingsley swallowed, refusing to curse his sentimentality. He considered it a strength, not a weakness, that after all he had seen and done he could still be moved by the pain and death of others. Shastri Khalili had been twenty three, an active auror but still in training one day a week, still turning in assignments and taking exams in between field and office duties. Coming top in those exams, actually, and perfectly calm and competent under pressure. Kingsley wondered if that calm had cracked under torture, if she had panicked when she realised the Death Eaters were not about the release her alive. Did they force her to reveal Ministry secrets? Did they gloat about making her an example of the fate of the enemies of Voldemort? Had she screamed?

Her fiancé had asked all these questions when Kingsley had gone to break the news. Broken-hearted, he had raged, yelled and sworn vengeance on just about everyone, including the Ministry and anyone connected with it. Her mother had been worse to watch. She had listened silently to the story of her daughter's capture and death, nodded once, then offered him a cup of tea.

That had been the point where something died inside of Kingsley Shacklebolt. On receiving the worst possible news, his colleague's mother had offered the bearer a cup of tea.

Of course, this had not been the first time, nor likely to be the last. But somehow, it was more than he could bear at the moment. It had not helped when, the day after Shastri's remains had been mailed to the Ministry, a distraught Michael Ivetsy had been led into his office, tendering his resignation.

"I'm so sorry," the newly-qualified auror sobbed, head in his hands. "I'm letting everyone down. I feel like I've wasted all those years of training, all those resources, all that effort. But I just _can't_ do it anymore. I've been having doubts for months, but now, after what happened to Shastri…" They talked. Kingsley counselled. They had hours of conference with Moody, and Michael's mentor, Tonks (whose hair was currently black as a mark of respect). They had offered him a year's sabbatical or a desk job in the filing room, but it seemed his mind was made up.

"Another one bites the dust," sighed Tonks sadly.

After his pep-talk with Alastor, Kingsley found himself in the kitchen of 12, Grimmaud Place with several members of the Order of the Phoenix. It had been two months since Sirius Black's murder, and meetings remained rather subdued. Harry Potter seemed to be suffering from depression, judging by the worried discussion between Molly Weasley and Remus Lupin. Poor kid, thought Kingsley. Really, his own problems could be so much worse. "Get drunk, get laid," he repeated to himself. Surveying the room, his eyes flicked over Tonks, Mundungus and many Weasleys before resting on the dark figure sitting impassively in the corner. No, not impassively, corrected Kingsley. He knew Snape was more alert than any of the others, but those deep black eyes betrayed nothing as they met his own. Kingsley held his gaze for so long, Snape arched an eyebrow at him. Kingsley used his most polite and professional tone.

"Professor Snape, may I have a word with you afterwards, please?"

He inclined his head, in agreement, but said nothing. Kingsley suddenly felt inexplicably nervous. Ah well, he thought, I've faced scarier things than teachers. Ferocious ex-Death Eater teachers with a reputation for sadism, a little voice in his head added. He ignored it.

"Auror Shacklebolt?" he asked with a hint of curiosity later, when they were alone in the Blacks' tatty drawing room.

"Are you busy this evening?" Kingsley asked neutrally.

"I beg your pardon?" a sneer began to form on Snape's sharp features.

"Would you care to share a rather excellent bottle of claret I received for my birthday last month?"

Snape was momentarily floored.

"What?"

"I hate to drink alone, and you are one of the few who appreciate a good wine."

The sneer was back in all its glory.

"So the order no longer trusts me," he stated. It was Kingsley's turn to be floored, echoing Snape's earlier "What?"

"It is perfectly simple. I am under suspicion, Dumbledore has instigated this interrogation…"

"It's not an interrogation," interrupted Kingsley. "It's nothing to do with the Order, or the Ministry." The eyebrow rose again.

"Then what is it you want?"

Kingsley sighed. As tough and as paranoid as Moody. Suspicious, unpleasant, cruel even, if his students were to be believed; but so very intriguing. Over the past year, he had found himself imagining what would happen were Snape to allow the mask to slide, to imagine that blank face fixed in an expression of pleasure, of desire. This had progressed to a fantasy of that smooth voice whispering gently in his ear, his own hands slowly undoing those endless tiny buttons… He stopped that train of thought abruptly as Snape's glare intensified.

"Very well. Would you care to sleep with me tonight?"

The glare turned incredulous. Then suddenly, without warning, Snape laughed - a soft, musical sound which Kingsley imagined few had ever heard.

"Direct, aren't you?" The auror shrugged.

"I didn't think you were the flowers and chocolates type." Snape looked amused.

"Are you calling me a slut?" This time it was Kingsley who laughed.

"I would not dare. I don't have the energy for mind games, seductions or any of that tonight. I would very much like to spend the night with you, but if you're not interested then say so and we can forget all about it."

Snape fixed him with an uncomfortable, probing stare. Kingsley automatically occluded his thoughts and stared right back. After a few moments the potion master's thin lips quirked in amusement again.

"What kind of claret?"


	2. Obeying orders

Author's note: I forgot my disclaimer in chapter one, so here it is. Sadly, I do not own any of the Harry Potter stuff, it belongs to the godlike genius JK Rowling, whose keyboard I am not worthy to dust. I'm just using some of her characters for my own twisted, non-profitmaking amusement. Fanks x

It was difficult to surprise Severus Snape. For almost forty years, life had presented him with a riot of improbable, alarming and occasionally terrifying events and he had grown up expecting the unexpected, taking nothing and no one for granted. Nevertheless, he had been truly surprised on being propositioned by Shacklebolt after a tedious Order meeting. A _pleasant_ surprise. Well, that was a first.

Of course he had observed the senior auror's excellent physique, his no-nonsense demeanour, his apparent disinterest in gossip and other frivolous pastimes so beloved by most, not to mention the warmth which flooded any room containing that subtle smile. An admirable man. But it did not do for one such as he to encourage these thoughts. Most romantic entanglements ended in embarrassment or heartbreak, Snape knew, but just one night, no strings attached, with a discrete and trustworthy wizard could be a welcome diversion. He had accepted almost immediately.

Shacklebolt's living room was a chic, masculine affair, all minimalist uncluttered surfaces and muted shades. Snape approved of the ensemble, except for the monstrous contemporary painting over the fireplace. His host saw him staring.

"Do you like it?" he asked mildly, handing him a glass of wine.

"No," Snape replied, sniffing, then sipping cautiously.

"Not an art lover, then."

"On the contrary, I am a great admirer of artistic talent." Kingsley chuckled at the barb.

"Ah."

"The wine, however, is superb. To what should we be drinking?"

Kingsley pondered for a moment.

"To pleasant distractions?"

"To pleasant distractions," echoed Snape. Two crystal glasses chimed together.

A few hours later, Snape started awake with Shacklebolt's sleeping head resting on his shoulder, the two wizards tangled around each other in a sticky sort of embrace.

"That's two in one day," murmured Snape to himself, allowing his heart to slow back down as he realised where he was, and with whom. His lover groaned softly.

"Two what?"

"I thought you were asleep," he remonstrated.

"I was," even in the semi-darkness, the gorgeous smile was apparent.

"Pleasant surprises. I live all my life without one, then two come along at once." Kingsley was no longer listening, lifting his head he planted slow kisses over Severus' chest, gently running his fingers down his sides, inciting a shudder and a curt,

"Stop that at once!"

"Mm-hm. Not ticklish I hope, Professor?" A gasp.

"Stop…ah!" Kingsley stopped.

"You want me to stop?" he whispered languidly in Snape's ear.

"No. Don't stop. Please."

Kingsley hadn't know what to expect from his night with Severus Snape. Perhaps rudimentary functional intercourse or mind-boggling depravity, or anything in between. As it turned out, he too received a pleasant surprise. Severus allowed Kingsley to lead the way, at first responding almost shyly to the auror's ministrations, then skilfully turning gentleness into desperate, clawing passion. Kingsley had to fight to keep the glow from showing on his face at work the next morning.

"What you looking so smug about, Shacks?" yelled Tonks, across the office. He schooled his face into a mask as a handful of people turned to stare at the man being described as "smug" just days after a horrific tragedy.

"I acted on a tip that Alastor gave me yesterday, that's all I can say." Apparently satisfied with this customary guarded response, everyone carried on with what they were doing. Moody's leer read approximately 9.7 on the lewd scale.

"So I was right then, lad?"

"Absolutely right. The situation is now much improved, thank you." Moody nodded.

"Good."

During the Summer holidays, Hogwarts was deliciously quiet. Professor Sprout popped back from her grown-up daughter's house every few days to check on her beloved plants. Professor McGonagall spent the first and last few weeks attending to Deputy Headmistress duties with a break in between visiting her sister in New Zealand. Hagrid, Snape and Dumbledore were in permanent residence, but often away running errands (or in Dumbledore's case, running the wizarding world). For several years, Snape had spent the first two weeks of August away from the castle, returning serene but exhausted, evading all questions about his whereabouts and occupation. This had stopped three years ago, and any enquiries regarding the change of habit had been met with outright hostility. The rest were absent for most of the Summer, occasionally coming to use the library or other odd little tasks. When any of the staff bumped into each other in the silent corridors of the castle there was usually tea, chatting, and possibly drinking on the terrace of the Three Broomsticks.

In this relaxed August atmosphere, Albus Dumbledore was sitting on the castle's front steps, enjoying a very jammy piece of toast in the morning sunshine. Snape strode round the corner and stopped dead on seeing him.

"Good morning, Severus. How are you?" he beamed.

"It's six a.m." snapped the other in annoyance. "What are you doing up so early?"

"It's six a.m." repeated the Headmaster, with a knowing wink "What are you doing back so late?"

Snape scowled all the way to his dungeons.

Cdkobasiuk: This is my first ever fic and you are my first ever reviewer! Thanks for taking the time big smoochy kiss . More graphic? Less graphic? What do you think? x

Ayasgrl: Thank you, I'm not sure where this is heading yet, I've got every idea from a soft little fluff-fest to horrific torturous Final Battles! Kingsley is a great to write because JKR hasn't developed him yet, still a bit of a mystery. I have such a thing for tall, dark mysterious men…


	3. At Ease

Shastri's funeral took place a week or so later. The exact time and location had been kept secret in case the Death Eaters had any more ideas about "making examples", but fortunately it went off without a hitch. All the aurors who attended had been invited back to her mother's house for the wake, but most were on duty and made their excuses, leaving just Kingsley and Michael Ivetsy sitting on a chintz sofa listening to a teary school friend reminisce about midnight feasts and failed hairdressing charms. Kingsley had maintained his composure, secretly pleased with the way he was holding up. Shastri's fiancé had shaken his hand and apologised for his display of temper on receiving the news, Kingsley had assured him that there was no need. He had maintained his composure. A tiny, frail grandfather had told him via a bilingual cousin that he had been an auror for sixty years in Delhi, and he felt no guilt about encouraging his granddaughter to follow in his footsteps because being an auror was the most noble occupation in the world. Hers had been a short life, but an honourable one, he had pronounced, and several relatives agreed. Still, he had maintained his composure.

Then Mrs Khalili stepped forward with her brave smile and offered him a cup of tea. The blackness descended as suddenly and painfully as it had last time. Thanking her, but declining, he muttered something about paperwork and left. Stumbling out of his own custom-made fireplace, the Ministry's bravest, smoothest auror collapsed onto his sofa and cried for twenty minutes.

When the tears finally stopped, it was still only 1pm, and he had a whole afternoon off to kill. Unable to face human contact for the moment, he headed down to the gym in the basement, knowing it would be deserted at this time of day while the investment bankers and city traders who shared his Docklands apartment building were earning their megabucks up at Canary Wharf. He liked living among muggles. He found it useful to stay in touch with their gadgets, fashions and topics of conversation, not wanting to be caught out when undercover; and it was so refreshing to talk about something other than the war. His neighbours' concerns were delightfully minor – the unbelievable dollar/pound exchange rate, scratched paintwork on their new car, Saturday's Arsenal game. If they were curious about any of his habits, they never showed it.

As expected, the gym was deserted, and Kingsley pushed himself through a gruelling two hour workout without interruption. Pleasantly tired, he showered and dressed back in his flat then sat down again. Within seconds his mind was replaying Mrs. Khalili's sad smile. Desperate for distraction, he ran through his options. He definitely did not want to go into the office to catch up on work. It was too early to respectably go to the pub. All his friends, collegues and fellow order members would be working, except Lupin, who was wrestling his own demons, and Snape.

Snape would not ask questions. He had experienced more horrors than Kingsley, many of which he had perpetrated himself. He knew all about this kind of torment. He would not offer empty condolences. And he might be free this afternoon. The auror's demeanour brightened slightly. Glad that Hogwarts' wards had been adjusted to allow communication between Order members, he threw a handful of powder into the fire and called Snape's name.

There was no answer for a while, and he had almost given up, believing the potions master to be out, when he came into view, one eyebrow rising as he recognised Kingsley.

"Oh, excuse me. Were you asleep?" He had not expected to see Severus in his green velvet dressing gown at three in the afternoon. Not that he objected to the sight. Barefoot, unshaven, with his black hair rumpled and eyes blinking too often, he looked bleary and dishevelled. Rather tasty, in fact.

"I was up all night working on a potion. Is there a problem, Shacklebolt?" The words were clipped, but there was no malice in his tone.

"No. I just wanted to see you. Nothing urgent, I can call back at a more convenient time." Snape assessed him for a moment, arms folded across his chest.

"There is no need. If you do not object to my inappropriate state, you may come through." Smiling, Kingsley did so.

Snape did not question his guest's odd flinch when he offered him tea, but simply asked a house elf for two glasses of pumpkin juice instead. Kingsley was grateful, and visibly relaxed a little. They sipped their drinks in a comfortable silence.

"Do you often brew through the night?" he asked after a few minutes, genuinely curious. To his delight, Snape fidgeted, looking faintly embarrased. It was Kingsley's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"I am a terrible slattern during the holidays, I am afraid," he confessed. "I can work through the night, sleep through the day, wear my night clothes for days at a time. I suppose it is a reaction to a life lived governed by the regimentations of boarding school." Kingsley laughed.

"Professor Snape!" he admonished in a tone of mock horror, "Who would have guessed!" Snape gave a little half-grin.

"Disgusting, I know. I eat lamb rogan josh for breakfast in bed and whole jars of olives at four in the morning. The elves grass me up to Albus all the time. He finds it hilarious." Kingsley was laughing again, wondering why he was so pleased to be privy to these dark secrets. Severus had shifted a little closer to him on the old couch, moving with a grace which belied his current appearance. Suddenly he clapped his hands together.

"Melon!" he declared.

"Pardon?"

"Melon with Parma ham! Are you hungry?" at his companion's shrug he clicked his fingers for a house elf and ordered the snack.

As they waited, Kingsley quietly spilled all the details of the funeral and everything that had been bothering him, feeling the weight of it lessen, but not lift completely under Snape's neutral gaze.

"It is often this way. An odd little detail can trigger the whole magnitude of emotion. Do not look at me that way, surely you do not believe me incapable of feeling?" They were sitting very close now. Kingsley shook his head, swallowing.

"Of course not," he opened his mouth to continue, but a large plate of melon and ham appeared on the coffee table and Severus turned his attention to it. Munching contentedly, he commented lightly,

"If you are interested, I might tell you about the nervous breakdown I had before becoming a spy during the first war."

"A breakdown?" Kingsley was astonished. "You? But everyone sees you as being completely unfazeable."

"As they see you too, Auror Shacklebolt."

Kingsley sat for a while with his elbows resting on his knees, too many emotions racing through him. He jumped as hands began to rub at his shoulders, then leaned into the soothing contact. That velvety voice whispered right into his ear.

"You lost one. How many have you saved?"

Kingsley groaned softly as a particulary tense neck muscle was unknotted. Severus seemed very informal today, allowing his guard down completely.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"For what?" asked Severus gently, with a hint of a smirk.

"For saying that. For this. For all of it."

"You know, this massage would be much easier if you were lying down," he suggested, still whispering. Kingsley groaned again and allowed himself to be led into the bedroom.

Completely relaxed after an intensive back massage which lasted for over an hour, Kingsley rolled over lazily and pulled Severus down on top of him.

"You're really quite amazing, did you know that?" he asked, kissing him slowly.

"It is rather odd, I can't seem to keep my hands off your body," the masseur noted in mock puzzlement, languidly tracing the taut brown chest to demonstrate.

"Then don't," murmured Kingsley wickedly. Flipping Severus beneath him, he removed the bathrobe and pleasured him slowly and thoroughly until he was begging to be taken deep, hard, and above all _now._ Never one to disobey orders, Kingsley obliged.

Later that evening, Severus awoke to find a warm body spooned against him, and a muscular arm wrapped posessively around his waist. This man was in his quarters, in his bed, lolling over his body as though he owned it. How could he have been so foolishly unguarded? To allow another to see his most vulnerable, dishevelled, disgusting self? Had he finally gone insane? Even speaking about his breakdown with his… his what? Well, whatever he had with Shacklebolt, it was officially no longer a one-night-stand. There had been two of them. And this had not even happened at night. Fidgeting uneasily, he tried to roll away, but the other only pulled him tighter into the embrace with a sleepy groan. Panic surged up into Snape's chest. He was trapped.

……………..

Thank you, my darling reviewers! You brightened my Easter weekend!

I agree that there are not enough Kingsley/Severus fics out there. That's why I decided to write one of my own. But will they survive? Can Snape cope? Will Kingsley's angst get worse? What made Snape break down and change sides? (Good questions, I haven't actually decided yet) Tune in next time….


	4. Attention

Kingsley awoke slowly, stretching luxuriantly and rolling over to find himself alone in an unfamiliar bed. Ah, yes. Another wonderful encounter with the very talented Professor Severus Snape. Frowning, Kingsley noticed his leg was resting on something small and roundish, reaching down under the sheet he discovered an orange coloured Bertie Bott's bean, and smiled. Such an enigmatic man. So harsh and formal when dealing with the world at large, but when left to his own devices he ate sweets in bed and didn't bother to shave for days. Not many people knew this, he suspected, and it made him feel rather special that he was one of the privileged few. Yesterday afternoon the potions master had been unguarded in his behaviour, and had obviously understood the upset he was currently going through, and Kingsley had to admit he was becoming just a little bit fond of him. Ok, more than fond. In fact, once the war was over, he decided he would like to wrap his arms around Severus and never let go. Probably not very practical, as far as life plans went, but it was his best retirement option so far.

For the moment however, his lover was nowhere to be seen. He checked the bathroom, the living room and the kitchen, but stopped short of leaving his private quarters for fear of bumping into Dumbledore and outing them both. Actually, the omniscient old git probably knew already, but Kingsley had no wish to experience that damned twinkle this early in the morning.

He dressed and made a cup of coffee while he waited for Snape to return, but after fifteen minutes or so Shacklebolt realised he had to get going or risk being late for work. He grabbed a scrap of parchment from the bureau in the corner of the sitting room and scribbled "Had to go back. Sorry. Thanks for everything," not signing his name out of habit – in the office, his tiny, cramped handwriting was instantly recognisable. Leaving the note on the table where Severus would find it, he stepped through the fireplace.

……………………..

The air was thick with spells. Crackling and flashing, magic exploded everywhere as the combatants dodged and dived for cover, yelling curses or screaming. Some very confused muggle police were hovering at the gates, barking something about "dropping your…er...weapon thingies" while the flickering light on top of their patrol car illuminated the debris and fallen wizards on the ground in stark blue. The Riddle House was looming out of the darkness above the assortment of aurors and Order members who had stumbled upon Voldemort's stronghold almost by accident.

Dumbledore had suggested a few people take a look at Tom Riddle's old family home, not really believing they would find anything of interest, but just to be on the safe side after a report of something unusual had appeared in the Little Hangleton Gazette. He had no idea that instigating this minor investigation would effectively send Bill Weasley and Remus Lupin right into the midst of Death Eater Headquarters. The first inkling they had of any problem was a garbled distress message from Bill, investigated by Tonks, who automatically put all her years of training into practice, proceeding with extreme caution and staying in touch with the Order via the emergency gold phoenix pendants which printed off information for members on a little ticker-tape . Her swift assessment of the situation had read: "Red Alert, all ops to L. Hang NOW, 10+ hostile DE, wzds down, get the f over here!"

Kingsley's stomach had knotted as he apparated immediately out of the dull recruitment meeting and into the battle. Firing a protection spell over the unconscious redhead sprawled awkwardly halfway up the front path, he took out a large Death Eater whose repeated blasting curses had a panting Tonks in retreat.

"Thanks Shacks," she gasped, suddenly dropping to the floor to avoid a jet of something unmistakably nasty which missed her by inches. "There are weird wards on the house, find out what they are and get rid of 'em!"

"Got it!" he cannoned round the perimeter of the dilapidated building, spotting a masked figure at every glassless window raining spells on the rapidly increasing numbers of Light fighters in the garden. This wasn't making sense. By now, the full weight of the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix had the Death Eaters surrounded, and had swiftly set up solid defensive positions. From their current situation they couldn't hope for a decisive victory, the usual tactic would be to apparate away and find another secret lair.

"What are they playing at?" Moody yelled through the chaos.

"No idea," returned Kingsley, "And these wards have me stumped. Never seen anything like them before!" He jumped as the grindingly awful sound of tearing metal shuddered through the air. A rebounded slicing curse had sheared the police car in half, and the little crowd of muggles gaping beyond the fence started screaming in shock and confusion.

"Get them out of here!" bawled Alastor and Dumbledore simultaneously, from opposite sides of the front lawn. On seeing Mundungus Fletcher striding towards them in all his disreputable glory, the muggles scattered in fear, except one policeman who was staring dumbly at his butchered pride and joy.

"I only just had it serviced!" he wailed at Mundungus glumly.

"Forget about it," instructed Fletcher, authoritatively.

"What! Are you mad? How can I do that?"

"Easy. Obliviate!"

Suddenly the battlefield fell silent, the Death Eaters stopped cursing, and Kingsley looked up to see a red-eyed, snake-faced figure regally descending the front steps. Voldemort smiled like a crocodile at the mesmerised faces now staring at him with horrified awe.

"Thank you for a most entertaining time," he hissed. "I do enjoy a good battle. And I think you will agree, this little skirmish was the perfect way to distract you all while my servant, Nagini and I took a little trip to Surrey. Good Afternoon." As one, Voldemort and the Death Eaters disapparated.

Those who had understood the taunt immediately vanished with a chorus of cracking sounds, the conscious injured and those tending to them were muttering in confusion when Angelina Johnson clarified by leaping to her feet and yelling out in panic:

"Sweet fucking Merlin! HARRY!"

………………..

A/N: Some more tough decisions for the sadistic author! Where is Severus? What is he up to? Are Bill and Remus alive? And what was Lord V doing in Dursley-country?


	5. Desertion

In the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, a very small handful of the Order were listening to a disjointed de-briefing by Alastor Moody. Like the rest of them, he was sporting some minor injuries, and had to stop talking every few minutes as new information came in, or when his version of the facts was challenged or updated.

"Potter is missing. Arabella Figg is missing. The muggle police have found the body of a boy matching the description of Potter's cousin; neighbours identified the remains at the house as Potter's aunt, Dursley is missing too. The building itself was subjected to very powerful dark magic, the place is a real mess. Most of the roof was found in nearby Wisteria Walk. A passer-by walking his dog witnessed some of what happened. They're trying to calm him down enough to get a coherent statement."

"What about Remus and Bill?" asked Angelina, nursing her damaged arm carefully.

"Both critically ill, I have no more news yet."

"What about the security breach?" asked Kingsley. "Why isn't Grimmauld Place secure anymore?"

"I don't know. Minerva?"

"I suppose Albus suspects that Harry may reveal some of the Order's secrets if…if he is placed under duress," she seemed to be under serious duress herself, Kingsley thought. Merlin, this was a disaster. The Potter boy could be undergoing torture right now and they didn't have a clue what to do about it. Had Voldemort really engineered the whole battle in Little Hangleton to distract them enough to kidnap Harry? It was looking increasingly likely.

Still jumpy, everyone drew their wands as the floo flared and Dumbledore stepped into the room. Tired and pained, he nodded his approval at their caution and sank slowly into his chair.

"Well," he said, regarding their anxious faces in turn. "The Ministry has received some kind of communication supposedly from Harry," there was a squeak from McGonagall at this news, but he raised a hand to calm her, "However, at this moment in time we are treating the message as suspicious. I will not send my best fighters into a trap through impetuosity."

Everyone blurted out questions and opinions on this new development, but Dumbledore was not listening. Leaning his face on one hand, he raised the other for silence. Mournfully, and without meeting anyone's eyes, he asked;

"When was the last time we saw Severus?"

No one spoke. Blood started rushing in Kingsley's ears as he wondered what the hell Albus meant by the question. He wasn't in the room. He hadn't been at the battle. This was not good. The silence was glacial.

"I thought so," the Headmaster looked up at the room. "In that case, I am afraid that he is also missing."

"Shit," said Alastor, with malice. "He's gone back to Voldemort, hasn't he?"

"Of course not!" shrieked McGonagall. "He would never do that!"

"Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater," he spat at her. "It's in his blood, forever branded on his arm, for Merlin's sake! I'm not saying he necessarily went of his own volition, but You-know-who has ways of persuading people! That's why all our secrets are out. Snape's told him everything, including where Potter lived!"

Minerva was still vehemently fighting her colleague's corner.

"He does not know where Harry lives! Only Albus does! He's told me twenty times, he would rather die than go back to that monster!"

The headmaster interrupted the argument quietly but firmly.

"I am afraid that may be another explanation."

"Albus," Kingsley asked, keeping his voice as neutral as he could, "You really believe that Severus could be dead?"

Dumbledore's eyes were tired, but the razor sharpness behind them was still enough to pierce Shacklebolt's defences.

"Kingsley, do you know something?"

He felt the heat rushing to his cheeks. He shouldn't implicate himself in this mess, but he was certain, absolutely and utterly certain that his lover had done nothing wrong. Would revealing their fledgling relationship help Severus, or just pull Kingsley down with him? And if he was still alive, would he be angry at the betrayal of his privacy? Well, it was too late now. After his hesitation, the whole room was now focused intently on him.

"I saw him last night."

Dumbledore spoke gently but the steel in his eyes brooked no argument.

"Where?"

"Here. In his quarters in the dungeons."

"What were you doing there?" demanded Alastor and Tonks simultaneously. Kingsley looked at the table.

"I. We. Erm. That is to say, we are…sort of…" he trailed off, humiliated at his childish inability to state the facts in an adult and professional fashion. No help was forthcoming from the rapt faces in the silent office. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"We've been seeing each other," he managed finally. "A bit."

"You're shagging Snape?" Moody demanded clarification, apparently no more professional than himself on this occasion. Kingsley nodded. The magical glass eye rolled so much it popped right out of his head and rolled off around the room. Angelina finally cornered it under a table after half a minute's chaos while several people tried to catch the slippery orb. The distraction gave him a moment to compose himself. Regaining his cool, auror's manner, he made a statement.

"I arrived in the dungeons at around three yesterday afternoon. Severus appeared relaxed and content. We talked for a while then went to bed. I awoke at seven fifteen this morning to find him gone. Knowing that he had been brewing the previous day, I waited in case he was checking on a potion. When he had still not returned after half an hour, I wrote a note saying that I had to go, and flooed home to change before going to work."

Dumbledore had risen from his chair and was grasping his arm, ignoring the gossipy whispering which bubbled up as he finished speaking.

"Kingsley, this is very important. Did you say you wrote a note?"

"Yes. Just a couple of lines."

"To whom did you address it?"

"No one. I left it on the table. I didn't think anyone else would find it." Kingsley was confused now. With all the important events of the day, why was he paying so much attention to a scribbled 3-line letter?

"You did not sign it?"

Tonks butted in helpfully, "He never signs memos."

"Indeed?" Dumbledore was smiling now, but there was sadness behind the smile. "And the contents of the note, if you would be so kind?" Kingsley racked his brains.

"Something like 'I have to go or I'll be late for work. Thanks for everything'. I can't remember exactly."

Albus reached inside his robes and showed him his own letter.

"That's it," Kingsley confirmed. Dumbledore let out a long breath.

"What was I supposed to think?" he asked no one in particular. "A note in Severus' rooms, apologising for having to _go back_, and thanking someone for everything." Minerva rounded on him like a mother tiger.

"You thought he defected! How could you, Albus!" He silently handed her the note. She exclaimed, somewhat placated "Oh! But it's just like Severus' handwriting!" She passed it to Alastor, who squinted with both magical and real eyeballs.

"No, that's Shacklebolt's scribble all right. Can't read a damn word."

Kingsley's mind was spinning. He had almost accidentally signed Severus' ticket to Azkaban. Thank Merlin his innocence had been established. But if he hadn't rejoined the Death Eaters, where on Earth was he? Captured? Tortured? Dead? Why hadn't he answered the summons?

The concern must have shown on his face, as McGonagall rested her hand on his shoulder when he was about to leave and try and sort out the whole miserable mess.

"Don't worry, Kingsley," she said kindly, "Severus has been taking care of himself since he was eleven, to my knowledge, and probably even longer before then."

"Thank you, Minerva. I know."

The comfort was short lived, however. As he arrived back at the Ministry, he realised that he had been the last person to see Severus before he disappeared. In fact, he had vanished after a passionate session of lovemaking with Kingsley, leaving him alone without a note or any kind of farewell. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that it was something he had done wrong which had caused him to bolt, some unforgivable error that had horrified Severus so much he had fled his own home. He shook his head, banishing these unpleasant revelations for the moment. The Light was in serious trouble and panicking would not help Severus, or Harry, or anyone now.


	6. Investigation

"Arabella?" whispered Kingsley, as gently as he could. Blinking at the harsh light in the cubicle she turned a weary face towards him.

"Hello, dear," she croaked. "More questions, is it?"

"Just one, I promise," he smiled apologetically. "I'm so glad you're safe."

"Harry was wonderful," she said with a hint of pride in her voice. "After everything that boy's been through! I asked Petunia to make him come over and help me with my new DVD player, the young ones better with technology, you know. And then they attacked. I never liked that dreadful woman, but I would never wish her dead!" It was clear that exhaustion was making her attention drift. Kingsley took her trembling hand in his and focussed on her pale face.

"Arabella, I'll go away and leave you to sleep now, but first tell me this. Did you hear any mention of Severus at all? Did you see him?" Her brow wrinkled.

"Severus? No, I didn't see Severus. You mean Tristan Snape's boy don't you? I didn't see him."

"Thank you, Arabella. You get some rest now," said Kingsley, a little concerned at her vagueness, as well as the unexpected reference to Snape Senior. Subconsciously he thought of the large blue auror's file bearing that name, mostly assembled before Kingsley's time. He wondered briefly if looking at it might help him find Severus, or if he would consider it an unforgivable breach of his privacy. Of course, there was another, slimmer blue folder immediately before it, but he could not entertain the idea of touching _that._ Born into darkness, he thought wistfully, but fighting for the Light. Was there such thing as the white sheep of the family? How he would hate to admit he had anything in common with the late Sirius Black.

Frowning, he made his way out into the corridor. At two thirty in the morning, St Mungo's should have been at peace with dimmed lights and hushed tones, but this evening it was buzzing as the healing staff and Ministry officials battled to locate and reunite the component parts of a massively splinched Boy-who-lived. No one knew how, but the Death Eaters guarding Harry and Arabella had somehow dropped their guard for a moment, and he had managed to grab her and successfully apparate them both away, no mean feat for an unqualified teenage wizard. He had called the Ministry from a muggle phone box, but suspecting a trap they refused to send help, procrastinating in true bureaucratic style. Believing he could repeat his earlier fluke, Harry tried to apparate to Hogsmeade with unfortunate results. Still, they had found some of him. Kingsley just hope the rest of the pieces were safe, wherever they were. He didn't like the idea of Voldemort getting hold of them.

On his way through the main doors, he saw a red haired young man miserably smoking a cigarette, shivering in the drizzly night air. His brain whizzed through the names of all the Weasleys for a second before he could place the upturned nose and stiff bearing.

"Percy?" he asked tentatively.

The Ministry clerk came out of whatever trance he had been in and murmured a greeting.

"How is Bill?" he dreaded the answer to the question, knowing that both Bill and Remus were fighting for their lives. The young wizard's shoulders drooped a few inches.

"Bad. They manage to stabilise him, then a minute later he goes back into cardiac arrest. Again and again. The last few hours have been hell." He took out another cigarette and lit it from the stub of the previous one. "Mum is…" he tailed off, unable to find words for what Molly was going through. Kingsley nodded understandingly. He knew there had been a rift between Percy and the rest of his family for more than a year, and though this crisis was agony for all of them, the outcast must be feeling even worse. They were silent for a moment.

"Come for a beer," he offered on impulse. The redhead stared. "I don't mean right now. Whenever. If you ever feel like talking to a stranger. Or drinking in silence with a stranger. Leave a message on my desk. You know where it is?" The other nodded gratefully.

"Thank you, Auror Shacklebolt. That's nice of you."

Kingsley had not heard footsteps, nor sensed any presence behind him, but as he crossed the dark alley a smooth voice was suddenly rippling into his ear.

"Chatting up children now, are we?"

With a gasp, Kingsley spun around and shoved the body against the wall. His large hand wrapped around a pale throat, and his wand was now pointing between a pair of shining black eyes.

"Not bad reflexes, for an auror," commented Snape casually, unperturbed by the assault. Kingsley lowered his wand with a sigh of relief, releasing him. Thank Merlin, he was safe.

"Where the hell have you been!" he didn't intend for the question to be such a demand, but he heard his own yell echoing through the street. Snape glared at him.

"None of your business," he answered, with a hint of annoyance. Kingsley was exhausted, upset and very relieved – almost instantaneously the worry of the past day and a half transformed into boiling anger.

"None of my business! Yes it bloody well is my business! Have you any idea how worried I've been! You just vanished into thin air, Severus!"

"I am under no obligation to inform you of my movements," the tone was icy calm but the fury was evident from a mile away. "I do not belong to you, like some possession to be summoned at will."

"Where have you been! I have a right to know." demanded Kingsley again, unwisely choosing to ignore his lover's fury.

"That is my affair," with a withering sneer he turned to leave. Afraid to let him disappear again, Kingsley grabbed his arm roughly and spun him round.

"You will not walk away from this! Bloody Hell, Severus! Do you even _know _what happened today?"

"Release me!" ordered Snape, now absolutely incandescent with rage as he struggled in the grip of the larger wizard. Taken aback by the murderous intensity suddenly glowing in the depths of his eyes, Kingsley hesitated without letting go. The next moment he was flying backwards through the air, colliding noisily with a dustbin. He struggled to his feet to find Severus gone. Percy and a mediwitch were hurrying towards him.

"Are you all right, Sir?" she asked, brushing random bits of rubbish from his robe. "Were you attacked? Did you see who it was?"

"I did," muttered Percy darkly.

"No, you did not," corrected Kingsley firmly. "I simply fell. Percy?"

The disgraced Weasley was looking at him with a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

"Percy, I fell. It's important. There was no one else here, was there?"

"No," he agreed, not understanding but automatically responding to the authoritative voice. "I saw no one."

Kingsley forced a smile for the nurse's benefit.

"I'm fine. Thank you for your concern, Madam."

…….

"I'm afraid I owe you an apology, my boy," Dumbledore was obviously functioning thanks to an industrial-strength Midnight Oil potion, but the contrition in his voice was real enough as he ended his complicated rendition of the day's events.

Severus was physically incapable of speech for a few moments.

Having known his inflammable potions professor for almost thirty years, Albus was prepared for all manner of attacks, curses, sulks, screeches and door slamming. But when the unfathomable eyes finally rose to meet his, the headmaster was devastated to see tears glistening in them. The voice was barely audible.

"How could you think that? How could you?"

Silence stretched between them, Severus gleaning a perverse comfort from the agonising guilt radiating off of Albus. Neither seemed able to utter a word. Eventually, Fawkes flew down from his perch and settled on the arm of the younger man's chair, head bowed and apologetic, begging for some attention by nuzzling underneath a delicate white hand. Severus glared for a second, then relented and stroked his soft head in silent forgiveness for Dumbledore's lack of trust. Beautiful notes of phoenix song softened the atmosphere in the room, and the old wizard began to relax.

"So what would you have me do now?" asked Severus, recovering his usual haughty demeanour. Albus grinned in relief on seeing the familiar mask slide back into place, even if it was tempered somewhat by his abnormal display of affection for Fawkes.

"I'm so very glad you're safe, child. There are enough people sorting out Harry's predicament at present. I would prefer you to go and speak with that terribly handsome auror who's been worried sick about you."

Snape looked mortified. His private life was private! How utterly humiliating.

"You are aware of the…situation, then?" he asked with a carefully levelled tone, wishing his cheeks were not so damned hot. Bloody Albus. Bloody hell.

"Oh yes indeed, we all are." Dumbledore quickly reached for a sherbet lemon and sucked as hard as he could, knowing the beaming smile threatening to crack his face in half would only irritate the scowling slytherin further. There was so much he wanted to say, but suspected that a lecture would not be welcome. Curbing his delight, he limited himself to just a few words. "He is a good man, Severus."

"But I am not."

Snape continued stroking Fawkes's red and gold plumage pensively. Delighted with the fuss he was getting, the bird had settled into his lap making little bubbling sounds of contentment. Unable to resist a small amount of meddling for the good of his dear, troubled protege, the headmaster sucked hard on his sherbet and muttered offhandedly,

"Kingsley clearly thinks you are."

…….

Completely drained, Kingsley dragged his uncooperative feet up the stairs to his flat, cursing the lift for being out of order. He had gone straight back to the office to help investigate the Privet Drive attack, and had made some progress. When Moody finally sent him home to sleep at four he had no strength left to protest. He no longer knew what to think about Severus, but had a gut feeling that his earlier show of violence had blown it once and for all. He was such a complicated character, impossibly difficult to fathom. Kingsley had been so relieved to see him alive he had lost his temper, which he never, ever did. He had probably deserved the magical shock, too. How had that enigma of a man managed to get so deep under his skin? What was going on? Sighing, he willed his tired brain to give up this unhappy train of thought and just let his body sleep.

As he reached the last flight of stairs he found the object of his thoughts sitting on the windowsill on the landing, an unreadable expression on his face. Kingsley was unsure whether this was good or bad. Well, at least he wasn't being ignored. Both men regarded each other silently in the fluorescent light of the corridor for a moment.

"I'm sorry I shouted at you, Severus."

"I am sorry I threw you across the street."

"I was worried."

"I know that now. I was ignorant at the time. Albus has since explained the developments of the day."

"You weren't captured? Or hurt?"

"No. Yourself?"

"No. Well, a scratch. It's been healed. Where did you go?"

The sound of footsteps and drunken giggles far below on the stairs reminded them they were in a public place. Kingsley opened his front door and invited Severus inside. It took him a moment to register what was different about the potions master, then he noticed he was wearing a fitted black muggle suit, teamed elegantly with a dark grey shirt. He compared it with the habitual sweeping black robes and the dishevelled green dressing-gown of the previous day and failed to suppress the thought that all 3 outfits were very different, yet all very attractive. They sat down in cream leather armchairs either side of the fireplace. Again Kingsley opened the conversation.

"How long have you been waiting outside my flat?"

"Just over an hour."

"I see."

Snape slumped down in the chair, picking at his nails, fiddling with his hair and fidgeting uneasily, all the while avoiding Kingsley's gaze. Eventually he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Kingsley, I owe you an explanation."

…….

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! They feed my soul x

Just a quick note about KS's mental state. My Kingsley is someone who is usually cool and emotionally self-sufficient, who puts his job before personal relationships; but the stress of recent months has knocked him rather off balance, making him fall for Severus sooner and harder than he has fallen for previous lovers. He is operating at maximum efficiency on all other fronts.

Onto SS's mind: who knows what goes on inside that head? Perhaps an small insight next time…


	7. Briefing

_Snape slumped down in the chair, picking at his nails, fiddling with his hair and fidgeting uneasily, all the while avoiding Kingsley's gaze. Eventually he took a deep breath and closed his eyes._

"_Kingsley, I owe you an explanation."_

…….

"I panicked," confessed Severus grimly. "I am afraid I am unaccustomed to such a level of intimacy with a person who understands what I am, if that makes any sense." Kingsley pondered this for a moment, not sure how to phase his reply without sounding rude.

"You mean, you prefer to sleep with strangers?"

Snape rose from his chair and leaned against the mantelpiece, apparently searching for the right words, or wondering how to explain. He stared at the conceptual painting which he had claimed to dislike so much on his last visit to Kingsley's flat, then continued in a soft voice.

"I suppose the best thing to do is to tell you about Anthony."

Kingsley felt something stir in the pit of his stomach. Severus had another lover. How could he have failed to notice? He, the fully-trained senior auror whose job was to observe human behaviour and spot the obvious. Glancing out of the uncurtained window he could see the lights of Greenwich twinkling on the other side of the river, as his insides began to feel uncomfortably cold as the darkest hour of the night descended. He said nothing as Severus paused to fidget again before beginning his narrative.

The wizarding world was a small one. After Severus had joined the Hogwarts staff he realised that any participation in the gay culture of wizarding London would leave him in a vulnerable position. The first war had just ended, and certain elements from both sides who had good reason to wish harm upon him and his new career could very easily acquire enough dirt to make life difficult. At that time, homosexuality was considered unusual, but not particularly offensive if it was decreed to be within the 'proper' confines of a relationship; meaning that a wizard could normally set up home with another wizard without fear of local disapproval, but a wizard who got wasted on illegal potions every night and sucked off random men in the filthy alley behind the Kneazle's Whiskers would be on the receiving end of some serious trouble. Especially if he was a teacher at a prestigious boarding school.

So Severus had been forced to look further afield if he wished to avoid bringing disgrace on himself and worse, on Dumbledore. Taking no chances, he not only headed for the muggle scene, but the New York muggle scene, where no one asked questions and anonymity was a hundred times easier, though he did get one scare when he bumped unexpectedly into a closeted British wizard with had the same idea.

New York was where he met muggle art dealer Anthony one Summer holiday, keen to lose his identity by putting the Atlantic ocean between himself and his ultra-religious family, believing that the shock of discovering his alleged perversion would kill his old mother. Instead of vanishing from the hotel room at daybreak as was his habit after one night stands, Severus had inexplicably accepted the offer of breakfast, and in a secluded corner of a softly-lit bagel bar, two men from different universes formed an unusual bond.

"I don't know what it was that made us mesh so well. I was certainly not in love with him," Snape was gazing into the distance now, lost in a different time, a different life. Kingsley was still feeling a nasty ache of jealousy towards this muggle, but did not want to stop Severus' monologue. He had a feeling he was the only person to ever hear it.

"But you continued seeing him?" he prompted.

"Oh yes," intoned Severus softly, still miles away.

Severus and Anthony spent two weeks together, Englishmen in New York, visiting galleries and museums, bars and clubs, or simply enjoying each other in bed. It was refreshing to just be himself, not to be judged by his name, his family's reputation, the mark on his forearm. Well, perhaps the dark mark did lead Anthony to judge him, but not in the way he was accustomed to.

'Mis-spent youth?' he had joked, tracing the outline of the abomination in the shower one morning. Severus had snatched his arm back in horror. He knew! How did he know? What on earth was going on? Was he really a muggle? Or a spywizard? Shit.

'Sorry, did I say the wrong thing?' he frowned, looking appalled at the darker man's reaction. 'I understand these things can hold bitter memories.' As Snape continued to stare at him in horror, a disconcerted Anthony continued, trying to put him at ease. 'I just thought that, you know, with your gothic image and skull tattoo, you had been a teenage heavy metal fan. Or a biker or something. I didn't mean any offence.'

And Severus breathed again. He had spent enough time in the city to understand that particular sub-culture, especially as enormous denim-clad men with handlebar moustaches always seemed keen to load him onto the back of their Harley-Davidsons. This usually made him scowl. Motorbikes reminded him of that menace Sirius Black, who had recently shown his true colours by bumping off his supposed best friends and ending up in Azkaban with his loony cousin Bellatrix and the rest of them. He had known all along that the freak was homicidal and a danger to society. Had anyone listened to him, Potter, Pettigrew, Evans and all those muggles would still be alive.

He filed these thoughts away to be enjoyed later, and concentrated on convincing Anthony that he had spent the late seventies as a particularly cool and interesting punk, rather than a depressed and disillusioned rubbish Death Eater turned spy. Anthony was pleasantly impressed, having been too afraid of his mother to ever get the mohican and studded leather jacket he had always craved.

'I bought all the records though!' he eagerly reeled off a selection of odd or downright rude phrases, titles of albums and bands presumably, which brought a pleasant, dreamy look to his face.

"What happened when the new school term started?" asked Kingsley, his earlier exhaustion forgotten by the mental image of Severus' double life mingling with the eighties New York gay scene. Being a bit weird had been actively encouraged in those circles. Kingsley couldn't help the thought that his partner probably fitted in better than any other time or place in his life.

"Anthony went back home to stuffy suburban Oxford long before September. We agreed not to keep in touch, believing that we had spent a perfect fortnight together, and any attempts to recreate it would spoil the, ah, magic. But then a year later, school broke up for the Summer and I headed back to America. Three days into my stay, there he was, standing at the bar in Studio 54."

They had settled into a routine. Every year, they would spend the first two weeks of the summer holidays together in New York engaging in carnal depravities which would have made the school governors' hair stand on end as well as finishing off Anthony's mum good and proper; returning to celibate respectability thereafter, forgetting each other's existence until July rolled around. An odd sort of relationship, but one that Severus had enjoyed very much.

"So Anthony's ignorance of your world made sure there was a distance between you," concluded Kingsley, suddenly feeling very tired again, knowing that he could never the kind of lover Snape needed. "You felt safe because he only knew about the things you chose to tell him."

Severus had emerged from the trance-like state he had been in throughout his recital. He looked over at Kingsley and bit his lower lip, nodding sadly.

"Quite. Then suddenly, a wizard who does know all about my terrible past shows an interest in me. Not just sexually, either. You seem to…" he cleared his throat and looked away again. "…to care about me."

"I do care about you," Kingsley said, without hesitation. "But I understand. I trespassed across your boundaries, and you ran to him."

"No!" exclaimed Severus, with considerable force. "No, no. Well, in a way, I suppose. I did go to Oxford before you awoke this morning. But Anthony is dead. I ran to his grave." When Shacklebolt said nothing, he elaborated. "The cemetery is in a peaceful spot. I find it an oddly soothing place to be. I went to try and sort out how I felt about letting my guard down yesterday, and allowing you to see me at my most relaxed. Anthony was the only other person I had felt so comfortable with. I had no idea so many important things would happen if I took a day's break. I am sorry I bolted – I did not intend to upset you."

Kingsley's mind was racing. Severus had dropped his guard because he felt at ease, then had panicked and fled. His eyes were drooping now, no matter how hard he fought his fatigue, but there was much more he needed to discuss with the Slytherin. Emotions, boundaries, the future – if indeed he could envision one. Kingsley lacked the strength to handle it all for the moment. Outside the dawn was starting over Greenwich, the black sky beginning to turn blue, the silhouettes of the tops of the _Cutty Sark_'s masts now visible in its permanent dry dock position. Mind wandering, he pondered the logic of taking a ship which had once been the fastest clipper in the world and trapping it in concrete for tourists to crawl over. But that was what progress did, the future changed everything, making the important aspects of the past irrelevant. He needed to proceed with caution, gently guiding Severus away from the old situation that had served him so well, and into the new, but his brain was currently too foggy for such a delicate operation. Snape read his thoughts.

"I should not have brought this up tonight. You are exhausted. I did not wish for you to retire while you were still angry with me."

Shacklebolt smiled, unable to suppress a yawn.

"I'm not angry with you. Will you come to bed?" Severus hesitated for a fraction of a second, before nodding shyly.

Too tired to even clean his teeth, Kingsley shrugged his robe onto the floor and crawled under the blankets. He was already half asleep ten seconds later when he felt something cold and bony snuggle against his chest, but managed to mumble;

"F'you start to get anxious, wake me up and we'll fix it together. Mmkay?"

The answer was a muted hum.

"Promise?" he insisted, squeezing Severus so hard he squeaked.

"Yes! Leggo! Can't breathe!" Kingsley relaxed his grip and fell asleep smiling, oddly content.

Feeling rather raw after baring his soul, Severus had the distinct impression that someone had taken his brain and vigorously shaken it, leaving all his thoughts drifting haphazardly around his skull instead of sitting neatly in their proper places. He felt those powerful arms holding him in place again, but this time, it felt rather…pleasant. Secure. He kissed Kingsley's sleeping smile and closed his eyes.

…….

A/N: Short chapter, I know, considering how long it took me to update!

Well, there's the beginning of an insight into one of the reasons my Severus acts the way he does. There will be more interaction between our two fellas next time, also developments with Harry, Voldemort and the others. Will Severus be able to cope with everyone knowing about him and Kingsley? Will he be able to cope at all? Will Kingsley stop being jealous of a dead guy?

Thanks to my luvverly reviewers! If you're still there, that is (sheepish grin).


	8. Debriefing

The morning sun was glinting off the Thames as Kinglsey strolled along the familiar path near his apartment building. It was low tide, which meant that several yards of noxious black mud were visible either side of the river, peppered with the detritus of Oxford, Reading and the filthy sprawl of the Capital, all ready to drift out to sea at the next high tide. Staring down from the embankment he could see an old shoe, a wine bottle, a dead seagull and some large, unidentifiable chunks of plastic half buried in the malodorous ooze, as well as a bright yellow New York taxi floating by serenely on the surface of the water.

"That's my cab," pouted Shastri from behind him, pointing miserably over the railings at the river. Kingsley gaped. Shastri! It couldn't be! She was looking through him, her slanting dark eyes focussed on something in the far distance. Pain and guilt suddenly rushed through Kingsley, and he fell to his knees at the shock of it. A second later he noticed that he was no longer in London but a country graveyard, with lush grass beneath his feet and birds singing in the blossom trees surrounding them, but Shastri's feet were trapped in sticky, oily mud which sucked noisily as she sank. He reached out but could not touch her, no matter how hard he tried.

"Forgive me! Please forgive me!" he yelled, his frustration almost choking him. "Come back! I won't let you go!"

She smiled as she was pulled deeper and deeper into the quagmire.

"You do not own me. I am not some possession to be summoned at will," she said. "Besides, there is nothing to forgive you for. I am going now." Kingsley gave a last desperate leap towards her.

"Shastri!"

…….

He jerked awake, heart hammering and covered in sweat. Slanting, dark eyes were looking at him in concern from the other side of the bed.

"Kingsley?" Severus whispered. "Are you all right?"

He fell back onto the pillow. Dreaming of her again. He closed his eyes and let his breathing slow down before answering. When he finally spoke, the words he heard were not the ones he intended to say.

"Your eyes are just like Shastri Khalili's," the statement sounded bizarre, and vaguely accusatory, and Kingsley was not sure where the thought had come from. If Snape was confused by the question, he did not show it, answering smoothly.

"That is not impossible. Her grandfather was my mother's cousin."

Kingsley blinked a few times, and bit down painfully on his lip to make sure this was not an extension of his dizzying dream. Then he remembered something.

"Wait, her mother's father? The retired auror?"

"Yes. Shankar Vijaivargia – the name which strikes terror into the heart of every Indian dark wizard, even to this day, I believe." He pre-empted Kingsley's next question. "I never met him or Shastri, or any of my mother's family. All contact was severed when she married my father."

"They disapproved of her marrying an Englishman?" he asked gently. Snape smirked nastily.

"They disapproved of her marrying a complete bastard."

Shacklebolt was not sure what to say to that, so lay quietly for a few minutes, trying to make sense of all the crazy thoughts going round his head. In his dream, the dead girl had told him she had nothing to forgive him for. Coming from her own lips, it had sounded like an absolution, and a little of the leaden guilt which had nestled inside his stomach since her death, disintegrated. Snape was silent next to him, his face inscrutable and his posture tense, obviously he was also struggling to deal with his own thoughts. He took a glass of water from the bedside table and sipped it, before offering it to Kingsley, who shook his head. Black eyes studied his face for a moment, before the tentative question was posed.

"So what happens now?" Severus looked away as soon as he had spoken the words, as though afraid of the answer.

"Do you mean, what happens between us?" the auror asked. Snape nodded.

"You will have already noticed that I am not a balanced, rational human being. Attempting to form a relationship with me would not be easy, I am afraid," he looked so disheartened at that moment, Kingsley could not resist reaching over to take his hand.

"These are mixed-up times, Severus," he reassured. "And you have already seen that I'm far from being my normal self right now. There is a war on, everything is disrupted, even the simplest things are difficult. Yet I don't think I could forgive myself if we didn't at least try to develop this...this…whatever you'd call this thing we have."

Severus was staring at their joined hands, the contrast of the dark brown fingers intertwined with the ivory-coloured ones forming an odd pattern of stripes between them. Joined, but still distinct from each other.

"What if it goes wrong?" he asked quietly, stroking the other man's thumb with his own.

"It might go wrong," Kingsley conceded. "But it might not. We might both be dead by this evening. Voldemort might win. You never know, but you have to do what you can. You have to try."

The couple were silent for a few long minutes, before Severus gave a sort of half-smile, half-grimace of embarrassment as he remembered something.

"Everybody knows. Don't you object to being linked with a slimy Slytherin Death Eater? Your reputation…" Kingsley lifted their hands and kissed the pale fingers resting snugly between his own.

"Let them gossip, I think you're actually rather nice. And I haven't noticed any slime so far."

Snape made a little choking nasal sound, which may have been a chuckle or a self-depreciating snort. He looked Kingsley in the eye again.

"I cannot change. You must not expect me to hold your hand in public or to alter my behaviour towards the world at large," he stopped speaking, cursing the crippling shyness which had made his whole life so difficult. Since childhood, his fear of everyone and everything had caused him to respond with hostility when feeling threatened (which was frequently), having nurtured the idea of attack being the best form of defence. The only child running around a huge empty house, no one had corrected this idea, if they even knew he held it. There was no talking at mealtimes, no interrupting his father's meetings, and absolutely no running around with the Village Urchins. He sometimes saw the Village Urchins (the words were, for some reason, pronounced with capitals and a supercilious sneer) from the library window, trespassing in the orchard to steal Snapish damsons. They looked unkempt and poor, but for some unfathomable reason, they were always laughing fit to burst.

At the age of eleven, he had arrived at Hogwarts to find all manner of strange children asking him questions, trying to find out personal information, casually touching each other and full of sharp comments and jokes he had barely understood. Unaccustomed to such attention and childish joviality he had been horrified by the informality, and the very idea that he was supposed to be in such close proximity to complete strangers. In his dormitory that first night, lying awake because _other people_ were in the room where he was supposed to sleep, he had translated the school motto and pondered its meaning. No one would dream of tickling a sleeping dragon. Why not? Because dragons were fierce and dangerous and molesting one would cause pain. Well then, it was perfectly obvious what he would need to do in order to be left alone. Wield deadly weapons, grow a thick, scaly hide and learn how to breathe fire.

"I can't ask you to change who you are," Kingsley interrupted his thoughts. "But I've seen your stern, professional self and your state of louche relaxation, and I respect both facets. If you are willing to spend time with me, I would be very pleased. And I won't try to possess you, or take over your life – if I overstep the mark all you need to do is tell me."

Snape's head was beginning to hurt from all the thoughts zooming around his brain. With some effort he managed to switch them off and admit to himself how much he enjoyed time alone with the auror. There were a hundred reasons not to pursue a relationship, but somehow they carried less weight than the few opposing arguments.

The kiss sealed their fledgling deal. Both were still partially clothed from collapsing into bed just a few hours earlier, unwashed and with shocking morning-breath, Severus still thought it was the best kiss he had ever had. Anxiety about the past, present and future still swirled through his brain but he clamped down on it, trying to concentrate instead on the fine and handsome man who inexplicably wanted to be part of his miserable life. Strong hands tugged off his shirt and roamed over his bare chest, making him whimper and pull out of the grazing stubbly kiss to nuzzle at that muscular neck, before his lips found the pierced earlobe and began to suck. Kingsley gave a desperate groan and ground his hips against Severus, who worried the gold stud between his teeth, before sliding gracefully down the other's body and hungrily taking him into his mouth.

…….

Hours later, the two men emerged dripping and giggling from the shower to find Mad-Eye Moody's head scowling in the fireplace. The casual affection immediately vanished in the presence of a third party.

"There you are, Snape," he leered. Kingsley pulled his towel tighter around his waist and attempted a nonplussed expression. "We thought you'd done another runner." Severus gave a glare which only Moody was capable of withstanding. Kingsley doubted even Voldemort would have resisted a slight flinch. Moody continued regardless. "We need you up here at St Mungo's to identify a body."

"Me?" asked Severus, incredulously. "Who is it? A Death Eater? I thought only relatives could perform that task." Alastor didn't answer. the question.

"As soon as possible, please, Snape. In fact, both of you had better show up. And Shacklebolt?"

"Yes, Boss?"

"I trust you will be more appropriately dressed," he gave possibly the lewdest cackle either man had ever heard and vanished before the Slytherin managed to hex him.

The corridors leading to the morgue were cool and silent, and smelt faintly of the cadavers which Kingsley had studied during the forensics part of his training. How to recognise the internal-burning curse as a cause of death, how certain deadly poisons left their mark on the corpse, where to pop open a ribcage in order to save the life of a person submitted to a lung-consuming gremlin – the memory of the last brought a grim smile to his lips as he remembered the practical demonstration on the body of an old wizard, then five years later, performing the real thing on Hestia Jones. Crack. He shuddered. She had difficulty breathing sometimes and was confined to desk work, but she was alive. All thanks to him, actually. The thought cheered him slightly as he remembered Severus asking how many lives he had saved. Still, the memory of that cracking sound was enough to turn his stomach, even now.

They rounded a corner where Dumbledore and the Magicoroner were poring over a clipboard, straightening up immediately on seeing the couple. The sympathetic look Albus was giving Severus immediately put Kingsley on his guard, though Snape retained his impassive mask.

"Headmaster," he nodded to Albus in greeting. "Coroner Grayling. You sent for me?"

Dumbledore ushered them into a small sitting room, painted in soothing shades with a few comfortable sofas and homely cushions which Kingsley had never seen before. He supposed it was designed to be comforting to those unfortunates who had been dragged into this clinical basement which smelt of chemicals and death in order to look at the sorry remains of their loved ones, as if a bit of chintz and a vase of lilies could ever lessen that terrible blow. Dumbledore waited until they were settled into squashy chairs with a cup of coffee each before beginning in his gentlest voice.

"Severus, I'm afraid this concerns your father." The pale face did not betray the slightest emotion. The slender hands wrapped around the gaudy orange mug were unnaturally still, the black eyes as fathomless as a china doll's as they regarded the ancient wizard. Kingsley felt something hard rising in his throat which refused to be swallowed. "He left the country while you were a teenager, did he not?"

Snape gave a fraction of a nod. Kingsley remembered a tipsy Alastor (he never allowed himself to get very drunk – it was difficult to be constantly vigilant if one was wasted) rolling up his trouser leg to show how his wooden leg fastened to the stump of his knee.'Tristan Snape,' he had confided, giving a curse-by-curse re-enactment of the awful battle which had left Otley Castle in ruins, Alastor critically ill, and the Yorkshire nobleman in permanent foreign exile while his family struggled to reclaim their confiscated estates from a vengeful Ministry. Dumbledore continued terribly softly, as though raising his voice would cause Severus some great harm.

"You have had no contact with him since he left, I understand?"

The slightest shake of the head.

"No letters? Birthday cards? Nothing to give a clue as to his whereabouts?"

Again a negative shake. Albus grimaced.

"Did you have any suspicions that he may have been involved with Voldemort?"

Severus shook his head again. Then spoke very evenly.

"I knew that he had shared a dormitory with Tom Riddle at school. I was unaware of any association since they left Hogwarts."

Dumbledore rose from his seat and paced for a few minutes, obviously trying to order his thoughts before he spoke again. Sad crinkled eyes glanced at Kingsley before resting on the potions teacher.

"I will tell you all that we know so far. We have found the body of a wizard in his seventies. The robes are by an eminent Canadian tailor. A wand was found snapped in two and placed on his chest in the manner of a Death Eater execution, though he does not bear the dark mark. Mr Ollivander identifies the wand as your father's. I am sorry to have to ask this of you, my boy…"

"I will look at him," Snape interrupted calmly, placing his cup on the side table. Kingsley immediately rose to accompany him, but he shook his head, frowning slightly. "No, thank you. I shall go alone. No, Albus, I would prefer you to remain behind too." He turned to the magicoroner, who had been listening silently in the doorway, his clipboard balanced nonchalantly on his hip. Grayling straightened up without a word and lead him towards the morgue.

Dumbledore and Shacklebolt stared at each other for a moment.

"I can't tell you how pleased I was to find out about your relationship. He would die rather than admit he needed someone to take care of him."

"I doubt he would allow me to do that," Kingsley blushed. "But I'm going to try."

Dumbledore beamed. The auror was about to ask about any developments with Harry Potter or Arabella Figg, when he suddenly remembered his odd conversation with the befuddled squib when he had been trying to find the missing Severus.

"Arabella mentioned Tristan Snape!" he exclaimed. Dumbledore's gaze went from avuncular tenderness to razor sharp in an instant.

"What did she say? Why didn't you tell me?"

"She seemed to be confused. She referred to Severus as 'Tristan Snape's boy', as though she knew his father better than she knew him. I thought it was rather odd."

"I think you will find that she did know Severus' father, a long time ago," he answered carefully, after a short pause. "It is a strange coincidence that she should mention him at that moment, then he turns up dead in Little Hangleton when no one else has seen him or spoken to him in decades."

Before Kingsley could ask any more questions, the door opened and the potions master entered with a dignified step, the distinctive mixed aromas of hospital and cadaver wafting in with the dark grey robe he had snatched from Kingsley's wardrobe before they had hurried to answer Moody's summons. He bowed his head to the headmaster and stated quietly;

"It's him."

…….

A/N: Oh dear, more angst. I always intend to write a fluffy chapter but can never resist torturing poor Severus a little.

Thank you for another crop of really lovely reviews, you've been very kind about this story, bless you all! (Curtseys prettily). (Falls over).

Ellrohan – Ow! (rubs head) Thank you, you darling you! Am updating as soon as I can, but things have got a bit busy around here so I find I am actually having to do _work_. Outrageous.

Lucidity – I'm sure there's plenty here for Severus to have a crisis about! Though being outed is the least of his worries just at the moment…

Cdk – Sorry, sorry, I'm rubbish. Glad you're still with me – a girl never forgets her first review! x

Oya, Mon, Rob – Glad you liked the Anthony story. Thanks for the lovely reviews, you are charming wee sweetpeas, all of you x

Coffeedreams – Am pleased that you likey. The answer to your question is a four-letter cliché, I'm afraid. x


	9. An Officer and a Gentleman

Kingsley had to hand it to the staff of the Evening Prophet – they could certainly move quickly. Despite having little information to go on, the news of Tristan Snape's mysterious death had made front page news due to its connection with the Boy-Who-Lived (would they ever tire of discussing that child?), reminding the world of his bloody Last Stand against the aurors all those years ago and his subsequent flight from the country.

It was the photograph which drew Kingsley's attention, though. Seven proud faces stared out from formal shot of the Slytherin quidditch team in the 1940s, the school cup nestled between the knees of the seeker. The caption underneath read:

**Front row (L-R): Algernon MacTavish (chaser), Griselda Burlington (chaser; _future mother of fugitive mass-murderer Sirius Black_), Tania Hurley-Wedge (seeker and captain), Edgar Hooch (chaser).  
Back row (L-R): Tristan Snape (beater), Tom Riddle (keeper), Meredith Honeyduke (beater).**

He wasn't sure which part of that frozen moment shocked him the most. Mrs. Black at about 12 years old, her hair in pigtails, her delighted face uncannily like Sirius' when amused; or the young Voldemort, looking handsome at 17 or 18 behind her, his Head Boy badge pinned to his quidditch robe. Kingsley would never have had You-Know-Who down as a keeper. In fact, it was well nigh impossible to connect the charismatic young man with the inhuman creature crowing at the Order after the battle the other day. In the photo, he was exchanging complicit glances with Tristan, who looked as though he was trying not to laugh.

Kingsley studied young Tristan's image carefully. Fair-haired, well-built, with a broad and infectious smile, it seemed the only feature inherited by his son was that distinctive nose. Perhaps the prominent cheekbones too. Severus had referred to him as 'a complete bastard', but he looked nice enough in the picture. But then, so did Riddle.

It was difficult to imagine what Severus was going through.

He had been three years old when his own father died. He remembered a sepia-tinted scene of an enormous man in sunglasses swinging his sister round and round in the garden, but he may have fabricated the memory after some reminiscing by Saffron, he couldn't be sure. Apart from that dubious link, all he had were a few photographs, anecdotes from his mother, and assurances from his older, wiser sibling that Joseph Shacklebolt had been the finest of men, and absolutely the best popcorn-maker ever. Saffron had a always been scathing about their stepfather Caesar's inability to deliver her favourite snack, though she agreed with Kingsley that in most other respects he was a pretty good replacement dad. And he was still alive.

"Mr Potter is ready to see you now," he put down the paper as a mediwitch stuck her head through the waiting-room door. "Can you keep it short please, Auror Shacklebolt? They've been talking to him for hours."

"Of course," Kingsley assured her. Poor kid. They had only just managed to get him all back together. He remembered the desperately confusing feeling of being splinched two ways when he had failed his first apparition test. It had taken the stand-by splinch team only 25 minutes to correct his mistake, but it had left him with a nausea very similar to sea-sickness for a few days. Harry had been in five pieces for almost two days now, so he must be really ill.

Pushing open the door, he was surprised by the atmosphere of anger which immediately assaulted him. The air was thick with Harry's fury. He was sitting fully-clothed and cross-legged on the bed, wearing an expression of defiance which suggested he wanted to be somewhere else; anywhere else. Or else.

"Well?" he snapped, seeming pale but very much alive and kicking.

"Harry," admonished Hermione gently, from her seat next to the bed. The young witch looked relieved but emotional, her hair all over the place, dark bags underneath her eyes. "Auror Shacklebolt is trying to help. I'm _sure_ this won't take long." He recognised a threat when he heard one. It took him a minute to realise why she was taking the place of next-of-kin. Black was dead, Lupin was ill, the Weasleys were in no state to look after him, Dumbledore was undoubtedly busy with important matters and the muggle relatives were gone too, of course. He felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the orphan – living legend though he was. But there was nothing he could do about Potter's isolation now, the only way he could help was listen to Miss Granger, and keep it brief.

"Mr Potter, I'm very glad you are all together again," his tone was businesslike and he did not accept the girl's invitation to sit. "I just wanted to ask a quick question."

"Snape's dad?" Harry interrupted, nodding to the folded copy of the newspaper on the bedside table. Kingsley nodded, slightly unnerved at his perceptiveness. "One of the Death Eaters came in with a jug of water and dropped it when he saw Mrs Figg."

"He was surprised to see her?" asked Kingsley.

"Yes. He called her 'Bella', and she called him 'Tris'," he pulled a face. "It was like they were long lost lovers or something. They kept hugging each other and saying 'I can't believe it's really you!' and all these gross things. Then he lowered the wards so we could escape."

"He helped you?"

"He didn't seem to care about me, he just wanted to get her away safely. Mrs Figg insisted that I came too," Harry trailed off and Kingsley followed his gaze, coming to rest on the photo in the paper. Quietly, but maintaining his anger the boy added, "I suppose that's another person dead because of me."

The slightly creased teenage Tom Riddle gave a roguish grin.

…….

It was evening by the time he managed to escape from work and see Severus. He arrived at Hogwarts to find him in his dungeon rooms, silently sipping tea with Professor McGonagall, who looked marginally less stern than usual. That explained the absence of Potter's head of house in the hospital, and doubled his guilt at taking so long to come to visit his lover. Minerva smiled at Kingsley and slipped away without a word, leaving the two men alone.

"How are you feeling?" the auror asked gently, taking McGonagall's place on the sofa.

"Overwhelmed," Severus' voice was even, but lacked its usual confidence. His dry eyes gleamed with something unidentifiable. "I don't know what to think, if I am honest."

Kingsley had no idea what to say. The Ministry training and years of experience of dealing with the bereaved were failing him. How did one talk to a man whose father had just died, if said father had been distant and unpleasant at first, then totally absent from his life, turning up dead decades later as some kind of Death Eater who had been executed for allowing his squib friend and Harry Potter escape from certain death at Voldemort's hands. There was a lot of emotion to work through. He dumbly took Snape's hand and held it between both of his own, trying to convey any scrap of comfort.

They sat in silence for a long time.

At length, Severus startled Kingsley by speaking.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?" asked Kingsley, squeezing his hand.

"For not giving me platitudes or trying to convince me that all will be well again soon."

"I don't know how you're feeling, no one can" Shacklebolt confessed quietly. "But it must hurt and I wish there was some way I could help."

"I don't want to think about it," hissed Snape. "I am already exhausted from trying to come to terms with all of this …turbulence. Will you distract me for a while?"

"Distract you?" Kingsley had a feeling he knew what was coming next, but asked the question anyway. "What shall I do, Severus?"

"Fuck me," he said simply.

"Are you certain it will help?" he rested his hand on a black-clad shoulder, watching him closely.

"No," snorted Severus, closing his eyes. "But it might."

Kingsley smiled and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

"You'll never have to ask me twice, love."

Severus was more aggressive than usual, and Kingsley responded in kind. There was an element of desperation to their activities which they both found exciting, despite the unfortunate circumstances. Apparently not capable of waiting until they reached the bedroom, Severus had ravaged Kingsley on the sofa until they had rolled onto the floor, where the auror had pinned him to the rug by his wrists, straddling his hips. Despite the desperately aroused sounds rumbling from deep inside Severus, Kingsley hesitated, terrified of causing harm at such an emotional time.

"Are you sure you're OK?" he asked breathlessly, not relishing the gigantic effort of self-control which he would force his body to make if the answer was 'no'.

"No. But I need this," came the rasping reply. "Get on with it."

"I don't want to hurt you," gasped Kingsley, trying to ignore the twitching body between his thighs.

"Shacklebolt, I _need_ you to hurt me!" he spat. "I thought there was no need to ask twice. Do you wish me to beg? Fucking hell!"

That did it. Channelling his own furies and grief Kingsley slammed into Severus after only the most basic preparation spell, urged on by his lover's throaty demands and screams. It was over quickly, leaving them both groaning and sweating on the floor, Snape with one arm still in his shirt sleeve, Kingsley still in his socks and (mostly) his trousers. Lots of tiny buttons were scattered over the floor, and the coffee table lay on its side, magazines and teacups strewn haphazardly around them.

"Thank you," murmured Severus hoarsely. Shacklebolt chuckled and pulled the pale body against his own, lightly stroking the tousled black hair.

"At your service, Professor," he whispered, then frowned as he noticed the fireplace just opposite the scene of devastation. "We probably should have sealed the floo first."

"Nah," the relaxed Slytherin muttered against his skin. "Give the old git something to twinkle about."

They laughed for longer than was necessary for such a small joke. But it seemed to help.

…….

Mrs Figg was released from St Mungo's later that evening. With no home left to go to and in desperate danger from the Death Eaters, it was decided that Hogwarts was the safest place to be for the moment. She had moved into rooms in the Headmaster's tower, which was now crawling with cats, much to Fawkes' disgust. He was perched atop Dumbledore's tallest bookcase, crackling threateningly with orange sparks whenever any of the displaced felines so much as glanced in his direction.

Severus, Kingsley, Arabella and Albus sat in the office, waiting for the explanations which Harry had not been able to give. Mrs Figg fussed with the blanket covering her knees, ordered tea, changed her mind, ordered cake, then cream to go on it, all the while refusing to meet any of their eyes. Kingsley wondered why she was so nervous. Well, not nervous exactly, more like…embarrassed. At length Snape broke the silence with a mysterious comment.

"You are Bella Micklethwaite," he stated coolly. She swallowed, gazing at him with shame and something like pity.

"You knew?" she asked quietly. He shook his head.

"I only began to suspect when Kingsley told me what Potter said earlier," not one single emotion could be read on his face.

"Ah," said Mrs Figg. No one spoke.

Dumbledore looked questioningly at Kingsley, who shook his head, equally baffled.

"Would someone mind explaining?" asked Albus carefully. "Just the basic facts will be sufficient. Please."

Arabella looked up, but Snape was staring out of the window in silent refusal. She cleared her throat.

"I was…I was Tristan Snape's mistress," she said quietly.

Kingsley gaped for a second before regaining control over his shock and putting on a calm expression. He reached out and took Severus' hand. Severus pulled it away and folded his arms across his chest. Arabella was crying now, but began her explanation as clearly as she could.

The Snapes were a traditional pure-blooded wizarding family. They had two sons, as was expected of people of their class – an heir to inherit the money and estates, and a spare in case the heir was killed. The eldest son, Malvolio, was raised with leadership in mind, indoctrinated with his parents values of how to be a great leader and a fine wizard, whilst the younger son, Tristan, was largely ignored and allowed to do as he pleased. This consisted of running around the castle grounds and surrounding areas, having childish adventures and developing a free-spirited outlook on life. Aside from the occasional thrashing, Tristan's parents had little to do with him and his outlandish ideas, which suited the solitary boy just fine.

He was seventeen when he met Arabella. Out meditating on the Moors one misty day he had become hopelessly lost, and his magic-locator spell had pointed him to the nearest wizarding area. It was not, as he hoped, Otley Castle, but the Micklethwaites' cosy cottage. They had welcomed him in with generous hospitality, and he had immediately fallen in love with Arabella.

'Her's a squib, you know,' her father had told him with textbook Yorkshire bluntness. 'Young wizard of your class can't be seen with her.'

'My brother could not,' Tristan explained with a shrug and a smirk. 'But I'm the second son. Who will care what I do?'

He was absolutely right. His parents rolled their eyes. Malvolio made some tasteless jokes. His mother's friends were scandalised for a day or two but quickly recovered and went back to ignoring the unimportant son.

Arabella and Tristan were very happy for fourteen years. Never feeling the need to conform to social norms by getting married, they moved into a nice little home in nearby Ilkley, living mostly as muggles with occasional visits to the magical world, content with just being together in peace and love and harmony. Until disaster struck.

It was a stupid accident. One of those unbelievably simple events which can shape the destiny of scores of people. Malvolio had apparently been strolling alone in the castle grounds when he slipped in mud at the edge of the lake, knocked himself unconscious on an ornamental rock and rolled into the water. He was dead by the time the groundskeeper found him.

Pandemonium erupted at the castle. Suddenly Tristan was no longer the spare, but the heir. His parents dragged him back home, cursing their earlier inattention, and foisting etiquette tutors and all kinds of lessons in how to be a noblewizard upon him. There was no longer any question of his being left alone to enjoy domestic bliss with a squib girlfriend, his mother insisted he marry a fine pure-blooded witch and produce sons to keep the proud Snape heritage alive.

Mrs Figg faltered in her narrative, the emotion of her story overwhelming her. Severus had risen from his seat and was staring out of the window again, with his back to the room. She blew her nose and took a few gulps of tea.

The hippy couple were devastated by this turn of events. Tristan had protested violently against his responsibilities at first, but his family had used some kind of hold over him, and he had been unable to refuse. After much soul-searching, they had planned to stay together despite Tristan's pending marriage, with Arabella taking the role of 'mistress' while the future Mrs Snape was his official partner and bearer of his children.

Severus gave a snort. Mrs Figg nodded.

"Yes, well, that was the plan," she grimaced, "But we seriously underestimated your mother. We knew Kali was very young, only eighteen or so, from a very well-bred Indian family. At first she seemed to be a demure slip of a girl who would do as she was told and not ask too many questions."

Snape gave another snort, louder this time.

"I don't know how she got the house-elves to tell her…" began Arabella, but was interrupted once more by the potions master.

"Cruciatus, I should imagine," he commented dryly. Everyone swallowed in unison. Mrs Figg continued.

"Possibly. But anyroad, Kali found out that her fantasy of playing Lady of the Manor in an English castle was not working as she had hoped. After a more than two years of…er…_persuasion,_ Tris and I were forced apart. Oh, I don't blame her, how can I? I was the third person in their marriage, the monstrous carbuncle on the landscape. But our happiness was ruined. I was married off to a kind and loyal estate worker named Norman Figg, we were given a huge settlement and a house hundreds of miles away in Surrey. Norman was a very nice man," she added, almost apologetically. "But he wasn't my Tristan."

She tailed off, lost in the happy memories of her youth. Kingsley was having a hard time connecting the Tristan Snape of her narrative with the vicious dueller and dark arts specialist described by Moody and the Daily Prophet. He supposed that was what a broken heart did to you. Had he ever forgiven his wife for sending away the love of his life? Had she ever forgiven him for marrying her as a gesture towards respectability, with no intention of being faithful?

Severus swung away from the window so abruptly that the others jumped.

"I shall be in my rooms," he nodded curtly to Albus and swept through the door, black robes billowing behind him. Kingsley shot to his feet, unfortunately slowed down by a random cat which had fallen asleep in the folds of his cloak, and hurried after him.

"Severus!" he called down the stairs. There was no answer. He dashed down the corridor in the direction of the dungeons and glimpsed a silhouette charging full tilt away from him. He called again, but the long stride did not falter, forcing him to run to catch up.

"Please, Severus," he began.

"Leave me alone," snarled Snape, without stopping. Mindful of the last time he grabbed hold of the potions master when they were both upset, Kingsley did not touch him, but kept pace in the sprint for the dungeons.

"Don't run away from me," he almost begged. "We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to." They had reached Severus' rooms now, and he muttered the passwords to allow him entry, before rounding on Kingsley.

"You are absolutely right," he said, voice dangerously soft. "We do not."

The oak door slammed in Kingsley's face with a ominous boom.

…….

Severus slid down the other side on the door until he reached the floor. This was ridiculous. Bella Micklethwaite's name had been flung around during arguments, cursed by his mother as the most ruthless kind of scarlet woman, and the reason why his parents lived in opposite wings of the same house without seeing each other for days on end. It was impossible to grasp that he had known 'that squib whore' all this time, disguised as a batty, cat-loving old dear who wore carpet slippers in the street.

Figg could not have been talking about his father, either. It must be some other man named Tristan Snape. She had painted a picture of an unconventional but charming chap who had not been equal to the responsibilities which had been thrust upon him, worlds apart from the harsh man Severus remembered, locked alone in his study, angry with life, his wife, himself. Then he had vanished after the terrible battle, the castle destroyed, the house elves dead, the money confiscated. All that was left was a thirteen year old boy wondering what the hell happened to his life; and a young mother cursing the day she laid eyes on that selfish, evil old bastard Snape.

Severus was used to shocks, his world turning upside-down with alarming frequency, but these new developments challenged some very long-established ideas which had been carefully archived deep within his flawed personality.

This war was proving just as disturbing as the last one. It would be a miracle if he survived with his sanity intact.

…….

A/N: Emotional rollercoaster alert! Oh dear, just when they were making progress, too.

So much of this fic is based on events of the past – but re-reading OoTP in preparation for HBP recently, I noticed how much of the real thing hinges on events which happened way before Harry's birth. And I'm a History graduate, I love the stuff.

Thanks again for more wonderful reviews, they brighten my morning, my life, my soul! And I always love to hear from you!

Well done **Oya** for pointing out the Moody slip. I had completely forgotten that canon Moody is retired, while mine is still ruling the auror's roost with a fist of iron and a leg of wood. Oops! (Smacks self on wrist for not paying attention). OK, as far as this fic is concerned, he got re-instated after the Ministry finally admitted Voldemort was back and decided they needed his expert help. Ahem.


	10. Once More Unto the Breach

After ten minutes or so, Kingsley gave up banging on the door. Severus was locked in his room and obviously not coming out. It was late, and in the sudden silence Kingsley could hear his own blood rushing in his ears as he leaned against the cold stone wall. He remembered the corridors of Hogwarts seething with life and mischief when he had been a boy, so it was oddly eerie to see them this deserted now.

He meandered up from the dungeons and outside into the warm summer night, flopping down on a large wooden bench and trying to process all the new information about Snape's past. Trying to weaken Severus' mental barriers enough to get close to him was proving very difficult. He could not shake the unpleasant feeling that he had been used earlier on, then cast aside when he was no longer needed. But that was not strictly true - he was needed now, if only the stubborn man would admit it.

He was starting to wonder whether all of this trouble was worth it, when he noticed an enormous figure looming across the lawn in front of him, brandishing some kind of oddly-shaped weapon as he called out in a thick Somerset accent;

"Who's that?"

"It's Kingsley. Evening, Hagrid."

"Oh, hello there!" The groundskeeper strode over and plonked himself down on the sturdy bench, wincing slightly. He offered a sip from a broad, flat-backed flask, which Kingsley automatically declined.

"Why are you wearing a sling?" asked the auror. He also noticed that, since the outbreak of the war, Hagrid was never seen without his pink flowery umbrella. Good for him.

"Oh, this? S'nothin much. Got bit by a thestral. Was going to ask Professor Snape for some balm for it, but reckon he's got enough to think about right now."

"Hmm," said Kingsley. Far too much to think about, actually. He began to feel rather guilty about his earlier thoughts. From the corner of his eye he could see Hagrid studying him carefully, his crinkled black eyes no less sharp than Snape's.

"You know," he began, tapping his bandage while addressing no one in particular, "When you become involved with ferocious creatures, you often end up getting hurt." Kingsley sat still, preparing himself for a speech about thestral husbandry. The giant continued. "But what you got to bear in mind, is they don't mean no harm. They only lash out if they feel threatened, it's self-defence, see?"

"Yes," agreed the auror a little hesitantly, not certain he was talking about thestrals anymore.

"You just got to earn their trust, until they believe you're not a danger. Then they automatically come to you for comfort when they're upset," he absent-mindedly pulled a sleepy ferret out of some deep pocket and began stroking it. "And of course, when you get to that stage, they'll fight to the death to protect you, too."

"You're a very wise man, Hagrid," Kingsley commented at last. The compliment was shrugged off.

"I know a thing or two about fascinating creatures," he sniffed, taking a big swig from the flask before letting the ferret run up his capacious sleeve. He leaned forward and gave an enormous wink. "Specially them as I've watched since they was little." Kingsley matched his grin.

They discussed Harry Potter for a while, which made Hagrid sniffle and blow his nose as loud as a foghorn when he recalled lifting the screaming, bloodstained baby from the rubble of Godric's Hollow and flying him all the way to Surrey sixteen years ago. Eventually, they got round to the newer developments of the war, though Kingsley was careful not to say too much, the groundskeeper's lack of discretion was legendary, after all.

He was mortified not to have noticed the silhouette's approach in the darkness, and later used the excuse of Hagrid's loud voice, and being unnaturally relaxed because he was inside Dumbledore's domain and hopefully safe from anything really unpleasant. He had no notion that they were no longer alone until Hagrid finished a monologue concerning the innate cunning of Malfoys with a friendly;

"Evenin', Professor!" Kingsley leapt out of his seat. He was supposed to be one of the country's finest dark wizard-catchers, yet he had allowed a very dark and frequently dangerous wizard sneak up on him unawares. Again.

"Good evening, Hagrid," said Snape gently. "Did I frighten you, Kingsley?"

"No!" he answered, smoothly but a bit too quickly. He supposed it was all right really, he was dealing with the sneakiest thing that both the Order and Slytherin house had to offer. Severus looked vaguely disappointed.

"What have you done to your arm?" he pointed at the sling, which now also contained a napping ferret. "_Lumos. _Show me."

"Sorry 'bout your dad, Professor," said Hagrid, as Snape deftly removed the ferret, passing it to Kingsley at arm's length, who held it gingerly by the scruff of its neck. It snarled at him, and tried to bite his fingers.

"Thank you. But I believe we were discussing your wound," he peeled back the bandage and grimaced. The wand light revealed a pattern of deep lacerations, just starting to heal over with unusual blueish star-shaped scabs. "Not too bad. I will brew something directly. Thestrals?"

"Er, two females were fighting over one of the males. 'Smating season. Fang got in the way and, well, he's too daft to defend himself, ain't he?" Kingsley looked around for the massive boarhound, but he was nowhere to be seen. Hagrid answered the unasked question with a grunt. "Hiding in the hut. Too scared to come out, the useless bugger."

"The salve takes thirty minutes to prepare. Shall I bring it to your hut?" asked Severus. Kingsley was intrigued to witness yet another fascinating new side to his lover, this caring nature unexpectedly surfacing to come to the aid of a clumsy, half-giant, outdoorsy Hufflepuff like Hagrid. Though he could not imagine the two going out for a drink, a mutual respect hung in the air. Much to its disgust, the ferret was also hanging in the air, and being of a supple mustelid disposition, it twisted back on itself and managed to sink a set of sharp little fangs into Kingsley's wrist. Kingsley gave a shriek and reflexively flung the little beast away from him.

"Nipper!" wailed Hagrid, leaping from his seat to recover his pet, which streaked away across the lawn and was swallowed by the darkness. Severus chewed his lower lip in an attempt to contain his amusement and seized the cursing auror's hand, inspecting the bite.

"It seems I should prepare a double dose," he deadpanned. Kingsley glared.

Back in the dungeons, Snape settled him onto a stool and began brewing. Transfixed, Kingsley watched the master at work, effortlessly controlling two steaming cauldrons as he weighed, chopped and ground the contents of a dozen or so sparkling glass vials. Eventually, the two potions were ready to be mixed and poured into ceramic bottles to cool, and there was no longer an excuse to remain silent.

"Almost ready," commented Severus, walking around the bench and nervously sitting in front of him. He took the injured brown hand again, and unnecessarily fiddled with the bloodstained handkerchief wrapped around the injury, before holding it between his own and heaving a great sigh. "I am sorry, Kingsley," he said. "My first instinct is to seek solitude when I am upset. I hope you did not take my isolation as a rejection."

Smiling broadly, Shacklebolt squeezed his hands as another of those coils of tension suddenly sprang loose inside him.

"I'm afraid I did," he confessed. Severus' eyes widened in concern as Kingsley continued. "But I should have realised that, and not come charging after you like a rampaging erumpent. You've had so much to deal with lately, I just wanted to help. Please, don't shut me out." Very carefully, he slid his other arm around the potion master's waist. Meeting no protest, he pulled him forwards into his arms until Severus' head was resting on his shoulder in a wonderful, comfortable hug. A few seconds later the thin body relaxed against him, and he reached up to stroke the soft hair, producing a musical hum of contentment.

"So sorry," he murmured into the auror's collarbone. "I have spent most of my life alone. I like knowing you are there for me, but it is hard to adjust after all this time."

A laugh began in the pit of Kingsley's belly and bubbled upwards, gaining resonance on the way, so that Severus felt its vibration even before the rich, deep sound reached his ears.

"You came to find me eventually," he chuckled, squeezing gently. "Thank you."

…….

Historically, Snapes were cremated rather than buried. Usually at the request of the shifty-eyed beneficiary of the will, in fact, and often before the Ministry had time to instigate any tiresome investigations. Tristan flouted tradition in death as he had in life, by being buried five days (and three post-mortem examinations) after the discovery of his body, in a magically sealed coffin which would not prove too difficult to re-open, should the need arise.

Magicoroner Grayling's final analysis had concluded that the fugitive had suffered prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse, the effects of which had caused his already weakened liver and heart to collapse completely. The liver was in such poor condition, he added, that Mr Snape would have been dead within six months anyway. The deterioration was most likely a result of decades of alcohol abuse.

The burial was attended by Severus and Mrs Figg, with Dumbledore standing between them to prevent any unpleasant incidents and Kingsley stiff and alert near the door, officially as a Ministry guard, in reality there as moral support. Mad-Eye Moody had refused to allow them to conduct the ceremony in secret, insisting that a few interesting people may have been unable to resist putting in an appearance. Kingsley was the only one to notice they way Severus had paled on hearing that suggestion, and had tried to reassure him in the corridor after the meeting.

"The place will be under high-alert security monitoring. Don't worry about Voldemort showing up," he brushed back a straggling strand of black hair behind one of those delicately pointed ears. Snape looked startled, but did not seem to mind the casual touch.

"What? Oh, I am not concerned with him! Well, no more than usual. I am merely dreading what will happen if my mother shows up and sees Figg."

It was the auror's turn to look shocked.

"Is she likely to come?" he asked carefully. Really, discussing Severus' past was like tickling the proverbial sleepy dragon. Inadvisable and likely to result in unpleasant surprises.

"Who knows," sighed Snape miserably. "Just be ready for carnage."

"But surely your mother would not attack a helpless squib?" The sneer he got in reply made him shrink back a pace.

"Mrs Figg is as much a helpless old lady as Albus is a harmless old man. You must have noticed that she stores more than cat food in that confounded string bag. And one should never underestimate my mother's ability to nurture a grudge," his voice tailed off to a whisper. "While I was growing up, her hatred for my father knew no bounds. It is difficult to recall enough good qualities to be able to mourn him adequately."

Kingsley stepped forward again and was gratified to see his lover reach out for a hug. He supplied it easily, pleased that he felt able to ask for reassurance when it was required. He kissed him chastely on the forehead.

"It will come," he reassured the Slytherin. "Give it time."

Moody was the only one disappointed by the funeral's smooth running. In the event, no suspicious veiled figures lurked at the back, no one fired the Dark Mark over the coffin, no irate ex-wives were in attendance. The small party returned to Hogwarts for a quiet lunch, interrupted only by the arrival of a large snowy owl bearing a scribbled message from Professor McGonagall. Snape threw a dirty look at the bird for some reason Kingsley could not fathom, as Dumbledore opened the scroll and beamed at what he read there.

"Remus has regained consciousness," he declared, delighted. "Though apparently he is still very weak. Minerva seems to think that it would do Harry good to be responsible for lsome of his care."

"Ooh, what a good idea," piped up a red-eyed Mrs Figg. "That way he won't be left to wallow in his grief all summer."

"I'm not certain of their safety at St Mungo's," mused Albus. "They would be better off here, I think. Yes, I shall contact Poppy immediately and have Remus moved to our hospital wing."

"Any news of Bill Weasley?" asked Kingsley, impressed at Severus' lack of reaction to the arrival of new housemates at the castle. He made a mental note to discuss it later.

"The healers are unsure that his sight will ever return, but he's making good progress in other areas, thank goodness," replied the Headmaster, apparently just grateful that the young man had survived.

The meal continued in silence, as no one felt particularly in the mood for chatting. Kingsley was just saying goodbye before preparing to head back to work for the afternoon when the news came through.

A serious incident was taking place in Diagon Alley. Many people had been killed or injured. There was little information for the moment, but all Magical Law Enforcement personnel were required at once.

Kingsley and Severus exchanged glances, neither wholly able to keep the worry from showing on his face. The relatively small concerns of the last few days suddenly fading into the background - for a little while, the bigger picture had slipped from their minds, but now world events were back with a bang. The war was entering a whole new phase. Could two men in their positions possibly hope to come through this unscathed? Severus reached for his hand and squeezed it briefly. Kingsley squeezed back, trying to convey a message of calm and support, before heading for the fireplace, and the front line.

…….

A/N: Thank you for your wonderful comments! It's so lovely to hear that people are following this story. Glad you appreciated 'Mrs Figg the Scarlet Woman' as Sea Priestess described her – I think she's a very mysterious character (Mrs Figg, not Sea Priestess), and I always love hearing about the wild youthful exploits of older people.

Severus has barely begun to address his issues yet, bless him, some more agonising next time, I think. I am sorely tempted by a flying visit from his mother, but as he's barely started 'dealing' thus far, I'm not sure if it's fair to throw her into the mix too. We'll see what ferments in my nasty little brain over the next few days.

Thanks again for all your encouragement, A x

PS: I hope esmesqualor managed to access the fic. It's so frustrating when you get mucked about!


	11. Casualty

AN: First of all, I know this is not a very original plot device, but it just seemed to fit, somehow. This chapter and the next will be sort of back-to-front, because not everything in life follows a linear progression, don'tcha know. You may well be confused, as the author and almost all the characters are, but please bear with me and ride it out, the mists will clear in due course of time. Thanks, SN x

Now without further ado, back to our dearest boys.

Drifting.

Floating.

Rolling gently. Like being at sea.

But somehow, not.

A wave of soreness, washing from toes to scalp.

Then a wave of numbness, as something counteracted the pain.

Prickling deep inside his brain, itchy little fingers wandering erratically between each vertebra.

Kingsley was somehow aware of each and every component of his body – bone and sinew, blood and flesh, every living cell was alive and making its existence known.

But despite all the sensations, he was adrift. Perhaps centuries had passed, perhaps only moments, but the hypersensitivity and the numbness seemed to wash over him for ever. As though the pitching and tossing was the only life he had known, or could ever know until the end of the world.

It was the smell which registered first.

The synapses of his brain identified the smell, despite the rest of senses being on hold. It was an insistent, pungent smell, sometimes stronger, sometimes only barely there, but there was no mistaking it. His brain relished its renewed deductive capability and announced its conclusion in six-feet high, flashing neon lights, searing right through Kingsley's skull.

**HOSPITAL!**

The floating continued for waves and waves before the next thought materialised. Thankfully, this one was not so loud.

**Oh dear.**

The waves took him once more.

Drifting.

Floating.

Rolling gently. Like being at sea.

…….

The smell returned, this time bringing other sensations. He was lying on his back, underneath blankets. Though there did not appear to be any pain, he recognised the dull, fuzzy feeling of potions working hard to protect him from the pain that he ought to be in.

There was a small sound of rustling on his right. Paper turning. Someone was reading next to him. He cracked open an eye and immediately closed it as blinding light seared straight through his drowsy head. He groaned, prompting some more rustling and the creak of furniture as someone got to their feet.

"Kings?" The female voice was comforting and very familiar. Carefully, he braved the pain to open his eyes just a fraction. Blinking in the glare, he made out a brown face topped with a forest of vertical, four-inch high braids bending over him. Grinning back at her hurt his cracked lips, but he did it anyway, managing to croak a greeting.

"'Ello Saff."

His sister rolled her eyes at him and sat back down.

"I think I'll let you come round a bit before I tell Mama you're awake," she smirked. "You might not survive otherwise."

"Mama? Here?" he blinked some more, trying to construct more substantial questions without success. Saffron reached onto the side table and poured a glass of water for him to sip. The coolness felt disarmingly good as Kingsley felt it slide down his hot throat to quench a burning thirst he hadn't noticed before. Trust her to still be one step ahead of him.

"Mama came as soon as I told her about the attack. She's been harassing the healers and yelling at your boss, but all the time nearly dying of pride because her baby boy's a hero."

Kingsley processed this information for a minute, an all-too vivid image of Patience Jones (formerly Shacklebolt, née Mauldeth) in her horn-rimmed glasses and garish cotton robes berating Mad-Eye as only a West-Indian matriarch could.

"A hero?" he asked tentatively, as the last part of Saffron's statement caught up with him.

"Order of Merlin, they're all saying," her tone was teasing but there was the vaguest suggestion of pride in her eyes, too. She twisted one of her crazy plaits absently. "But I think most people who were involved are getting one."

He knew that what she was saying ought to make more sense, but when he tried to think deeply his head began to ache and he had to stop. He had been injured, that much was obvious, probably rather seriously if his mother was back in this country, throwing her considerable weight around. His sister had mentioned an attack...

"Saff," he was forced to admit defeat, hating how weak his voice sounded. "I don't know what you're talking about. What happened?"

"You don't remember?" she sounded surprised. He shook his head. "The war's over. You-know-who… I mean, Vo…Voldemort is dead. Half of Diagon Alley was flattened, but it's over. He's gone, I mean, really gone, this time!" She watched him carefully, apparently waiting for recognition to dawn on his face. When it didn't, she continued. "You were right there in the thick of it, you assumed command when the Light forces got split in two with Dumbledore, Moody and the others forced out into muggle London and held outside by a Stonewall Block."

"Did I?" croaked Kingsley in awe, desperately trying to dredge up some memories of his own. It was as though Saffron was telling a story she had read in a newspaper, completely unrelated to his life. However hard he tried, the only confrontational thing he could remember was being bitten by a rat, or a cat, or possibly a ferret. Yes, a ferret sounded right. How on earth had that happened?

"You're looking blank, Kings," she frowned inquisitively at him. "You really can't recall the battle?"

"Nothing," This was not good. He must have been hit by some complicated confunding curse, or else taken a fierce blow to the head. Whatever had happened, he hoped it was only a temporary problem. What else had he forgotten about? The effort of thinking was beginning to tire him, and he felt the familiar waves begin to gently rock his body as his sister's voice drifted to him from far away.

"I think I'd better call the healer."

Floating again.

Actually, it was rather pleasant.

Ferrets?

…….

The healer kept telling Kingsley to relax, which is easier said than done when there are huge chunks missing out of your life. Tonks had crashed through the door, cascading grapes, flowers and rude Get Well Soon cards just as Healer Legge was really starting to irritate him with stupid questions he could not answer. Plonking herself down heavily on the foot of his bed, she reached over to hand Kingsley some of his presents from the other aurors and knocked a jug of cold water all over Legge, who shrieked and began a sharp tirade about 'the patient needing rest'. Tonks stared at her colleague in horror, devastated that she might have caused him some harm.

He grinned in reassurance.

"Actually, Madam, you were just telling me that I should surround myself with familiar faces who might help jog my memory," he winked at the metamorphagus. Legge spluttered something about having to change and stalked out of the room.

"Sorry," began Tonks glumly.

"Don't be, you did me a big favour," he lay back on the pillows and closed his tired eyes. "Now, I wonder how quickly the gossip has spread?"

"You mean, about your amnesia?" asked Tonks immediately, tucking into a juicy black grape and choking as she accidentally swallowed the pips. She made a series of inelegant noises before swallowing audibly and finishing; "Your sister told me just now on the stairs. She's got very cool hair."

"Yes, that's what I meant," he sighed, handing her a tissue to wipe her streaming eyes. "I'm sorry, Tonks. It's really frustrating and I'm not feeling at my best to cope with it. Were you hurt in this huge battle which I can't remember happening?"

She gave him a pitying look which he answered with a glare. He wondered idly where he had learned such an uncharacteristically fierce expression. Moody, possibly?

"Not really. I was on the roof of Ollivander's but got knocked off by a stray hex. Michael Ivetsy did a wonderful _Arresto Momentum_ and all I got was a sprained ankle."

"Which idiot stationed you on a rooftop?" asked Kingsley in disgust. That had been an accident waiting to happen. Who put the MLE's clumsiest auror in a high, slippery place?

"Er…you did, Shacks," she made a pathetic attempt to hide her laughter as his face fell. "You were great, actually, barking out orders and keeping everyone covered as well as you could. People just did as they were told, too, you have a very commanding personality when you put your mind to it!"

He opened his mouth to answer when something occurred to him.

"Ivetsy? But he resigned, didn't he? I remember that. Or at least, I think I do…"

"Yes he did. He was shopping when the fight broke out and joined in. Brought down Avery and Goyle, actually," she frowned. "Lost an ear, though he doesn't seem to mind. He was asking Mad-Eye for his job back yesterday."

Kingsley allowed himself to drift for a moment. It was such an odd scenario. So many witches and wizards would have given anything to simply wake up one day to find the war finished and themselves praised for bringing about its end. The harder he tried to penetrate the kind of fog in his mind, the deeper it became. Occasionally there would be the suggestion of a memory, but it would immediately swirl away the second he tried to grasp it, leaving him tense, irritated and none the wiser despite his efforts.

That Legge woman had told him there was no reason to be unduly concerned. He had only regained consciousness a few hours ago, things would apparently come back to him over time. He couldn't help but think that this would be a hell of a lot more comforting if only he could remember something other than that damned ferret. His unhelpful mind boggled. Perhaps the creature had been a pet from the shop in Diagon Alley, or a Death Eater animagus who had transformed during the battle.

The door opened again and Kingsley looked up to see Professor Snape standing nervously in the doorway, his right arm in a sling. Tonks immediately got to her feet and scuttled away, waving cheerfully at Kingsley, who rolled his eyes. He could never understand why she – who had faced countless horrors in the line of duty – was still so scared of her former teacher. Though it was odd, the look she had thrown him as she left had not been fearful, but rather knowing or even suggestive. He would never figure out that woman, he decided with a sigh.

"May I come in?" asked Snape softly. Kingsley motioned him to a seat, wondering why the taciturn wizard had decided to visit him. As he walked rather stiffly towards the chair, the auror began to make yet more bizarre observations. Besides the sling, there were other differences about Snape. His hair, for a start, though still hanging limply in his eyes at the front, was now neatly cropped at the back, giving definition to his sharp cheekbones and taking some of the length from his face. The right side of his forehead and cheek were glistening with some kind of gelatinous salve, and his right eye was only half-open. More remarkable than any of these, however, was the fact that his mouth was curving slightly at one corner into what could only be described as a kind of smile.

Kingsley could not recall ever having seen him smile. Smirk, sneer, grimace and gloat were the only departures he made from his habitual closed expression, usually signifying something unfortunate for someone, somewhere. Yet there was no denying that this was a gentle, pleasant little smile, lighting up the unmarred side of his countenance. Kingsley decided that it was due to the end of the war. Though St Mungo's was quiet, surely there were parties and celebrations of gigantic proportions happening outside, as relief flooded the country after so much suffering. He made a mental note to ask someone for the full list of casualties, in case he upset anyone with his ignorance of their bereavement.

"How are you feeling?" Snape asked, sounding for all the world as though he cared. Kingsley was becoming more confused with each new development. He had never seen Snape actively take an interest in anyone before, but he answered politely.

"Physically, not too bad, but I have sustained some form of amnesia, which is rather frustrating."

The odd little smile faltered slightly.

"You do not remember the battle?" he asked, even softer than before.

"No," sighed Kingsley, trying to clamp down his annoyance at having to repeat himself over and over. "Nor much else before it. But what happened to you? Something hit your right side?"

"A Thunderbolt hex from the Dark Lord which was intended for…" he tailed off and stared deeply into Kingsley's eyes until the auror started to become uncomfortable.

"Er…Snape? Is something wrong?" he sounded more disconcerted than he hoped under that icy black stare. He thought Snape would probably leave at the question – he had never been one to share his feelings with near-strangers. Even near-strangers who found him attractive in a quirky, sophisticated way. He turned away in case the country's finest occlumens turned out to be as skilled in legilimency.

"You…you don't remember?" the smooth voice was now little more than a whisper. Utterly fed-up with that particular question and even more so with the answer he had to keep giving, Kingsley snapped back.

"No, I don't remember. Now, if you don't mind, Professor, I'm very tired and would like to get some sleep."

The potions master recoiled as though he had been slapped. With a final, searching look at Shacklebolt, he got to his feet and left the room in a much less dramatic fashion than normal, a barely-perceptible limp slowing down his signature stalk-and-billow combination.

Kingsley sank back into the bed and rubbed his forehead. He _must_ make himself remember. Snape obviously knew something he didn't. He snorted aloud. Most people knew things that he didn't at the moment, which was the whole problem. Ferrets came into it somewhere – or had he dreamed them as a side effect of the many potions he had taken? Like the strange ache in his gut which felt a bit like longing. But what could he be longing for? The war was over, by all accounts he had played a key part in the defeat. Snape had not been particularly caustic, yet he was left with a kind of bitterness in the back of his throat as though they had argued, which was ridiculous in itself, as everyone in the Order argued with Snape from time to time. It could only be one of the potions.

Furious with himself and the sensations his body was registering he shoved his spinning head under the pillow and forced himself to sleep.

Surely it would be better in the morning.

…….

Some life skills could be so well ingrained into the personality that their owner would not even notice their automatic deployment.

Snape's ability to completely shut down all non-essential brain activity when confronted with overwhelming floods of emotion had served him flawlessly since childhood, and so he arrived back at Hogwarts seeming completely composed, concentrating only on making his way safely through the wards and then the corridors. Blindly hurrying down the 'home' passage leading to his dungeon, he pulled himself up only just in time to avoid colliding with Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, Severus. I was just looking for you," she smiled. His blank gaze took in the champagne she was carrying without passing thought or judgement.

"Mm," he said. She peered through her half-moon spectacles at him in the gloom.

"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.

"Mm," he said again, walking round her and trying to continue his way back to safety, sanctuary, familiarity.

"Severus!" she called, seizing the back of his robe to stop him. "What is it?"

He stared at her wrinkled hand, clutching at the black of his cloak, then along her arm to her face. The feline eyes were as piercing and formidable as they had been during his schooldays, but for some reason he no longer wanted to shy away from them. He realised with a jolt that she would not have to forcibly wrestle the confession out of him – he actually wanted to share his personal problem with someone else. It was a startling revelation.

Snape was unsure how to proceed. How did one go about broaching such a subject? And why would she really want to know? As he turned over these points in his mind, she tugged him silently towards his rooms and he lowered the defences on the door, wondering why he was so keen to drop the stronger ones inside his head.

They were settled in the chairs by the fireplace before he managed to speak. McGonagall did not rush him, instinctively knowing that this would not be an easy interview for her younger colleague.

"Kingsley," he began, then stopped. Even saying his name hurt. She nodded in understanding.

"I know he was badly injured," she prompted.

"He cannot remember," he heard himself say, in an odd, disembodied voice. When the deputy headmistress said nothing, he tried to clarify. "He has amnesia. He has no recollection of recent events. Of me. Of us." He gritted his teeth, dreading her reaction. She would mock him, he was certain of it, finding the unbearable situation amusing in some way. But even worse would be pity, he decided. He would be pitied by the whole community as the poor soul whose lover had survived the blasted battle but no longer wanted him, having been robbed of their meagre store of precious memories.

It seemed he had misjudged Minerva, however. Her expression was devoid of mirth or sympathy, being merely thoughtful as she rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, and her chin on her hand.

"How unfortunate. Is this situation permanent?" she asked, mercifully not really looking at him as she pondered the matter.

"They do not know for sure. There are so many unknowns when dealing with the workings of the human mind, even today," Snape was pleased that he kept his voice so neutral, when all he wanted was to fling himself to the floor and sell his body and soul to any passing entity capable of bringing Kingsley back to him. If he had been unsure of his feelings before today, then there was no longer a glimmer of doubt. He had previously avoided emotional attachments wherever possible because of this. He only had himself to blame. Let down the walls in your head to let in Love and you were open and defenceless in the face of Pain. The avoidance of Pain was a tactic which had shaped his life since childhood, yet here he was, almost forty years old, with all his experience and qualifications, in pure agony at the loss of a love-affair.

"Minerva," he blurted, unable to keep all this unfamiliar emotion to himself any longer. "I love him. We had only just begun and I've already lost him." He hung his head at his shamelessly out-of-character behaviour, but McGonagall merely regarded him as though he had asked her to pass the salt.

"In that case, you will just have to win him back," she explained, logically.

"I can't!" wailed Snape, burying his face in his good hand as he sunk lower and lower. "He was the one who started everything. He investigated how I was feeling, adapting his own life to fit around my foibles. He listened to all of my insecurities and still wished to pursue me."

"Perfect," she declared calmly. Severus stared at her incredulously.

"What?" he demanded, desperately tired and hoarse.

"That would suggest that he cared a great deal for you before the accident. If he instigated the relationship, then he clearly finds you attractive. If he took pains to develop it, then he enjoys your company," she explained it all calmly, without passing judgement of any kind. Crossing her arms across her chest, she concluded; "All you need to do is spend lots of time with him. This will either jog his memory and you will be back to normal, or he will fall in love with you all over again and the lost weeks will have to be written off as casualties of war."

Snape gaped at her. She seemed to have it all worked out. Try as he might, he could not find fault with the argument. He dared to allow his miserable spirits to lift a little at the thought of Kingsley caring about him whether he remembered or not – could it really be so simple? Blasted Griffindor logic.

Swallowing, he looked at her for reassurance.

"So, what shall I do now?"

She finally broke the professional façade and allowed herself a grin, more cat-like than ever as she stretched her shoulders and wriggled in the chair.

"Now, my wee child, you go and get him!"

"But how shall I begin?" He worried, refusing to believe things could be solved so easily.

"In your place," she suggested, "I should start by telling him how you saved his life…"

…….

AN: Is it really so simple? Has KS changed?

Another slow update, I'm afraid. Thanks for lovely reviews of the last chapter, so glad I'm hitting the right note for so many of you! Especially as it's so AU now (mutters)! There will be a return to some of the more established forms of angst soon. So glad you like the Hagrid part, am actually planning on using RH in a new story in the pipeline…

Next time, we'll hear a bit more about what happened to whom during the battle, though this fic was never terribly concerned with the main canon plots or characters. Thanks so much for sticking with me! As always, I love to hear from any others interested in this rarer ship! Love to all x


	12. Demob

Severus awoke feeling rather stiff. This annoyed him for a moment until he remembered why.

It was over. The whole hideous mess which had stolen his youth, ruined his adulthood and almost destroyed the wizarding world on far too many occasions had finally come to an end, and Severus had no idea how he was supposed to feel.

He rose slowly, readjusting the long, cotton nightshirt which always twisted itself up around his waist during the night and padded across the stone floor to the bathroom.

"Ooh, you've finally had your hair cut!" his mirror whistled approvingly.

"Quiet," he told it, automatically running his hand across his newly-naked neck. He felt cold and exposed after thirty years of hiding beneath long hair. "Keep still, I need to see myself."

The mirror made a tutting noise but did as it was told.

Even by his own low standards, Snape was not looking good. The sticky burn salve on the side of his face had collected bits of fluff and even a feather from his pillow as he slept, which when combined with his usual jaundiced complexion and two day's worth of black stubble made him look like an unusually sinister vagrant. Blinking experimentally, he found his right eye was opening further than it had the previous day, but snapped shut more often than normal, independently of the left eye's rhythm. Really, he thought, he had been lucky the eyelids had not been fused together permanently.

The skin of his right arm was sore and different shades of pink and red. He stretched it out carefully, wincing as the movement pulled the burnt tissues. Another few days of the sticky salve should ease the pain, but he doubted the skin would heal without scarring. The left side of his face broke into a humourless smirk.

Perhaps the disfigurement of this forearm would go some way towards negating the aberration on the other.

He took a deep, cleansing breath and held it until he began to feel dizzy. It was over. The struggle which had lasted for more than half his life was done. What on earth would he do now?

…….

Six hundred miles South, Kingsley had awoken in St Mungo's to find himself feeling better, but still very confused. Moody had arrived right after breakfast, filling him in on more details of the battle, as well as relishing the delivery of a shock revelation.

"What!" gaped Kingsley, staring incredulously at his boss.

"Yup," Mad-eye crossed his arms over his chest and grinned lewdly.

"Me and Snape!" he boggled. Moody nodded, enjoying himself thoroughly. Before they could discuss it any further, Saffron bustled in with a pile of magazines, a basket of fruit and a scowling teenage boy in a ridiculously baggy t-shirt and ill-fitting jeans.

"Hello, Joseph," Kingsley smiled at his nephew. Joseph glared at Moody. Unabashed, Moody glared back, his magical eye apparently very interested in the complicated muggle trainers the boy was wearing. Joseph took in the mutilated face, wild hair, wooden leg and crazy eyeball and took a horrified step back, all his youthful attitude deserting him.

Moody cackled and stood up to gave Saffron his seat, looking almost gentlemanly for an alarming moment. She twinkled charmingly at him, while Joseph threw himself down into the spare visitor's chair and began a good sulk. Whether he was sulking because his mother was flirting with a grizzled old policeman or simply because he was thirteen and the world was cruel, Kingsley could not tell.

"You two have met, I suppose?" Kingsley sighed. They both nodded.

"Yes, Alastor was here while you were still unconscious," his sister said, still smiling broadly at Mad-eye, the bright red beads on the end of each vertical braid clicking every time she moved. Apparently, the two of them had been getting along very well over his prone body, which made perfect sense to the patient, having long experience of both of their wicked temperaments.

"Saffron was telling me how she used to pour apple juice over your trousers and tell your mother that you wet yourself," Moody teased with unashamed admiration in his voice. Joseph stopped sulking for long enough to shoot his uncle a wide grin. Kingsley rolled his eyes and leaned over towards the boy.

"Your mother," he stage-whispered, "used to be evil." Joseph nodded knowingly as he whispered back;

"She still is. Ow!"

Visitors came and went until lunchtime, when over a bowl of what was supposed to be Cream of Leek soup he finally had a moment alone to take stock of his new information.

He was now able to remember a few events, though there was still a disjointed feel about the memories, as though he had watched a different Kingsley play-acting instead of living through the experiences himself.

When Moody had told him about arriving in Diagon Alley to find a Death Eater attack in full swing, he got a blurry picture of himself taking charge of about one third of the Light fighters while Dumbledore and Moody pitched the main attack. Then he remembered the screams of the living as an army of Inferi pushed the others back, back, away and out of the picture, leaving the depleted force alone.

Tonks' account of the last stages of the battle had triggered a scene of the Other Kingsley on the burnt-out terrace of the ice-cream parlour trying to keep a ferociously angry Harry Potter away from the epicentre of the fight. He could not recall his own words, but the boy seemed to be shouting 'It's me he wants, he'll just keep killing until he gets to me! You may as well let me go!' Then it was raining spells and Voldemort was there and the Other Kingsley's wand was knocked out of his hand by a laughing Death Eater, then Voldemort was casting '_Blitzschlag_' right at him but before the spell hit something black materialised in front of him like a shield and was blown sideways in a ball of flames.

Snape, he realised with a jolt.

Snape had bought him an extra three seconds in which he was able to snatch the spare wand from inside his robe and block the deadly volley of curses streaming at him from Malfoy as Voldemort's attention turned to Potter. Then, things faded again.

Unable to stomach any more disgusting hospital food, he pushed his bowl away and leaned back against his pillows to brood. He thought more about Snape. Certainly, he found the man attractive, but had he really formed so close an attachment that he would risk his life to save Kingsley? It appeared to be the case. As if in confirmation, an image of Snape in a dressing gown, eating melon and ham next to him on a sofa flickered into his mind. His eyebrows rose of their own accord on seeing the stern teacher so relaxed. Then he was blushing, as he watched Other Kingsley copulating violently with Snape on the floor of his chambers, ripping at clothing and flesh as the coffee table flew across the room, scattering its contents everywhere.

Well, that put paid to any doubts he may have nurtured about the existence of their relationship. Judging by the wanton snarling and begging, both men were rather attracted to each other.

He was still deep in thought when a soft tap sounded at the door. He jerked back to reality to find Snape standing half in the room and half out, as though unsure of his welcome. Kingsley swallowed.

"Severus," he said, with no particular emotion. "Would you like to come in?"  
The potions master entered, and stood hovering a little way back from the bed.  
"Have a seat?" Kingsley suggested, wishing this was not so difficult. Snape slithered into a chair and sat perfectly rigid for a moment before managing to speak.  
"Are you feeling any better?" he asked politely.  
"Much better, thank you, Severus," he managed a smile. "And you? Your face looks like it healed OK."  
"Yes," he said.

There was a long silence.

"Alastor told me that you and I were…involved before my accident," Kingsley volunteered at last, desperate to ease some of the tension.  
"I can imagine," said Snape, and broke into a shy smile. For a second, Kingsley was taken aback at the change the gesture brought to the other man's face. The harsh bone structure lost its flinty chill the same way that early spring could soften a long-frozen winter landscape. Kingsley caught himself committing poetry and shook his head lightly to focus his mind on the present challenge.

"I'm sorry I was short with you yesterday. I couldn't remember a thing. It was frustrating," he confessed, rubbing his hands over his forehead as though to soothe his whirling consciousness. "Things are still messed up but I know how you saved my life."

The beginning of a flush swept up Snape's neck and chin but did not reach his face. When he didn't speak, Kingsley continued. "And I can remember a little of the time we spent together." The Slytherin's head snapped up at that.

"Indeed?" he asked hopefully, peering at him with such intensity that Kingsley's breath faltered.

Something swelled inside the auror's chest on seeing strands of silky black hair tumble into Snape's eyes. The sensation felt unfamiliar for a moment, until Kingsley recognised it as a surge of lust. It had been a long time since he had desired someone so strongly, or at least, he thought so. Perhaps the feeling had been triggered by his earlier recollection of wild sex.

"Yes, you in a green bathrobe, scoffing pieces of melon," they both smiled at that. Severus assumed a faintly martyred air.

"Of course, you would keep the memories of me sprawling like a slattern in the precious weeks while the brats are away," he smirked ruefully.

"I also remember…" it was Kingsley's turn to flush, and not just on his face, either. "On the floor in your living room. Are we always so, erm, vigorous?"

Severus gave a snort of laughter, looking so amused and content that Shacklebolt suddenly wanted to touch him, to ravage him as thoroughly as the Other Kingsley in his memory had. He wondered if his damaged body was capable of it.

"Not often like that," Snape smiled, his weakened right eyelid dropping an unbidden wink. "However, we have had our moments."

Kingsley was reaching out to take Snape's hand when a mediwitch arrived pushing a trolley of assorted potions and unsavoury contraptions.

"Hello Auror Shacklebolt," she greeted him like a buxom auntie bending over her spoiled two-year-old nephew. "How are we this afternoon? Have we had our bowels open yet?"

To his chagrin, the floor failed to open up and swallow Kingsley whole. Glancing over at Severus, he saw the Slytherin's impenetrable mask had reappeared, probably an automatic reaction when trying hard not to laugh.

"Well?" demanded the mediwitch.

"Er," said Kingsley.

Severus stood, bowed formally to the witch and to Kingsley, and bade them good afternoon. Turning back as he reached the door, he threw the auror a tiny smirk. Kingsley sighed.

Progress, he thought.

…….

Severus apparated outside the school gates and began striding up the path to the castle, heading for his dungeons. After a few steps he realised that he was in no hurry, so slowed his pace to an unaccustomed stroll before stopping altogether.

There was no reason to go back to the castle. He had no urgent potions to brew, no Dark Arts research to do and no need to retreat there for safety's sake. Suddenly intimidated by boundless amounts of leisure time, he stood for several slow minutes in the middle of the path, frozen in horror at the idea of having nothing to do for more than two weeks until September rolled around.

How was he supposed to pass the days now? Even on his holidays in New York years ago, he had followed vague plans. Going to galleries with Anthony. Concerts, opera, the ballet, special nights at certain bars. He gave an uncouth snort of laughter as he remembered a salsa night in a tacky but friendly club where Anthony had bruised his toes again and again as he gamely tried to conquer the dance. The instructor, a Brazilian transsexual with Dame Edna specs had enjoyed watching them struggle all night, before presenting Severus with the booby-prize - a voucher for a foot massage – and howling to the laughing crowd that hopefully Brits had better rhythm in bed than on the dancefloor. It should have been embarrassing, but five or six years later it still made him laugh. Bless Anthony's awkwardness.

He turned on his heel and strode back towards the gates. He seemed to be in the mood for contemplation, so there was only one obvious place to go.

Spelling his robes into something muggle and unobtrusive, he apparated into a cramped space between a set of dustbins and a fence, brushed himself off and walked nonchalantly across the church car park until he reached the cemetery gates.

The grass had just been cut and the air smelt wonderful, its freshness belying the purpose of the field where it grew. The newer graves were buried under riots of summer flowers, the birds were singing in the yew trees over the melodious droning of insects; out beyond the iron railings of the graveyard a muggle cricket match was in progress, the white-clad figures trotting around while spectators applauded underneath their sunhats.

Though the dead lay decaying here in rows of cold marble, to Severus Snape, the world had never seemed so alive.

He strolled through the gravestones, skirting the untidy Victorian section, where the Verger used the excuse of having once seen an endangered species of vole to make sure he no longer had to manoeuvre the electric mower through the uneven mounds and fallen statues. The overgrown mountain of bindweed and brambles seemed to get bigger every time Severus visited. Never mind voles, he thought, there were probably dragons living in there by now.

Another row to the left and he reached his destination.

**Anthony Frederick Leonard.**

**Aged 39 years.**

**He saw beauty in all he saw.**

Severus wondered who had been responsible for the inscription, so apt to his late lover's outlook on life. More than any other detail of his memories of Anthony, those seven words pierced him right through his soul. Anthony had bought and sold works of art for a living, studying at Oxford and later at the Courtauld Institute exactly what made an object attractive, he had grown up in an immaculately tasteful Georgian house surrounded by fine things, yet, implausibly, he had seen beauty in Severus Snape.

Severus held onto that thought like a talisman, as less pleasant memories slunk through his barriers, triggered by the sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt lying helpless on a hospital bed.

Anthony had taken a long time to die. It had not been graceful, moving or elegant, like the dewy-eyed classical heroes of Art. He had ranted at his mother, thrown things at Severus, pulled out his intravenous needles in frustration and sobbed like a sulky child. He did not swoon back calmly on silken sheets with a becoming pallor. He coughed and hacked and wheezed for breath, sunken eyes rolling in hollow cheeks as saliva dribbled down his chin, soiling the bed and begging for life or for death, anything, anything at all to end his suffering.

Severus had been able to provide a few pain-relieving potions, but as he found out to his despair, magical potions never worked to their full potential on muggles. The corporal differences between muggles and wizards were few but significant, and Anthony and Severus' personal tragedy showed the contrast in black and white. The virus they had both caught had given the wizard a head-cold of three days duration. It had sucked the life from the muggle slowly and agonisingly over eighteen months of useless struggling.

Anthony had told his mother that he had contracted a nasty strain of pneumonia. Muggles were just like wizards in that respect – some things were considered just too awful to be spoken of, at least in the conservative circles of upper-class suburban Oxford.

Snape mentally shook himself. How utterly typical of him to be thinking of death now that the Peace had been restored and the world was shimmering with the promise of fresh starts and new life. He ought to be thrilled that Kingsley had not only remembered their affair, but also seemed keen to renew it. Somehow the sense of relief he knew he should be feeling had failed to materialise. Last night he had imagined joyfully throwing himself into Kingsley's arms and telling him how much he loved him, yet at the appropriate moment he had restrained himself and walked away. Why did his own mind make so little sense?

Picking up an empty chocolate bar wrapper from the edge of Anthony's plot, he strolled over to the churchyard bin and dropped it in, before heading back to the castle.

aaaaaa

AN: 'Blitzschlag' - German for Thunderbolt. I figured that not all spells would have a Latin or French origin.

Cream of Leek instant powdered soup out of a packet was the first non-intravenous food they gave me after my surgery last year, refusing to let me onto solids until I'd eaten the stuff. It took considerable argument to convince them that I did actually have my appetite back, but the stuff was just too foul to contemplate. Ugh.

Anthony is named after two amazingly talented people, one of whom was a gay artist, inventor and out-and-out genius, the other a wonderful musician who died of the same virus as Anthony. The epitaph I made up myself, if I have stolen it from anywhere it was done subconsciously, but apologies anyway, just in case.

Yes, in my world, wizards can fight it off. Hope that does not offend.

Thanks for reading, and thanks for lovely reviews of the last chapter, which I agree was a bit dodgy. Love SN x


	13. Promotion

Snape's feet returned him to the castle once again without any input from his brain. He was so engrossed in contemplating the recent tumultuous events that he was standing in the entrance hall before he realised where his inbuilt 'point-me' charm had brought him.

His own emotions had always been a weary tangle of pain which he preferred to ignore until Kingsley invaded his life and made him open up. The exhausting night-time confessions of the past few weeks had been a radical departure from his habitual rigid life-stance, and though it had felt good to have another person understand a little of what went on inside his head, he was not enjoying the current vulnerability and feeling of dependence. It looked as though Kingsley would recover his memories after all, but it had been a terrifying reminder of the inadvisability of dependence on others.

His self-reliance was the aspect of his character of which he was most proud. He had acquired it young, as soon as he realised his parents' commitment to sulking or screaming at each other outweighed the nurturing of their son, and it had served him well into adulthood. The only major slip before now had been the shameful eight months when he allowed himself to believe the promises of a manipulative madman – he had learned the hard way that the selling of one's soul is a non-reversible transaction, that to buy back that which he gave in a moment of flesh-searing recklessness would take years of giving more than he could afford, just to keep abreast with the interest.

But he had finally achieved it. Dumbledore, his Mortgage Advisor, had exonerated him after twenty years of hell. His soul was his own again, to do with as he pleased.

He had shown it to Kingsley, who had seemed keen to claim it in the midst of the fighting and the killing which threatened both their lives at every moment. There were two questions which Severus needed to ask, now that the world had entered its blissful transition period into Peacetime. Would the auror still be interested in his soul and his body now that their life expectancy was longer than a day? And would it matter if he was not?

Voices echoed from one of the corridors leading to the hallway. Even with the distortion of stone walls and flagstones, Severus could recognise the cheery Griffindor tones of the hero of the hour, chatting away to someone. The only distinct word he heard was 'Remus'. That was enough to send him dashing for the grounds. He had hoped that with all the confusion after the fall of the Dark Lord, the Headmaster would have forgotten his offer to let Potter and that confounded beast move into the castle. Evidently not.

Blinking in the sudden glare of the afternoon sun, Severus realised he had fled to the little terrace which overlooked the forest and the rolling lawns which led towards it. Dumbledore and McGonagall were apparently taking tea at one of the little ironwork tables, and beamed up at him in unison.

"Severus! How nice to see you!" smiled Dumbledore, patting the empty chair next to him. "Do join us, my boy."

Severus searched frantically for an excuse, but now that his only duty was to nurse himself back to full health, he gave in to the enforced sociability and sat down. McGonagall transfigured a biscuit into a spare cup and saucer and poured him some tea.

"How are your burns today, Severus?" she asked him pleasantly.

"Tolerable. My arm is still sore, but I have a good salve which helps," he avoided her eyes, remembering their last conversation, where he had moaned like a lovestruck teenager because Kingsley had forgotten him.

"That's good news," smiled Dumbledore, eyeing him studiously. "And that new hairdo has taken years off you!"

"No, Albus," he returned, with more amiability than he expected, "That would be due to intense relief at the Dark Lord's demise."

The Griffindors chuckled.

"You're not the only one to feel it," confided Albus. "I happened to notice someone chasing butterflies around like a kitten this morning."

"You saw?" Minerva flushed in embarrassment, glaring at the Headmaster.

"Did you catch any?" asked Severus seriously. "Crushed butterfly wings are used in a large number of mood-enhancing potions."

McGonagall sat up straight in mock-indignation.

"I caught several," she sniffed. "Naturally I released them again. I'll not help them end up as homesickness cures for snivelling first years."

The giggle escaped before Severus even knew it was coming. He clapped his hand over his mouth in alarm but it was too late. Albus and Minerva were staring at him like two proud parents hearing their baby's first word and Snape felt just about ready to die of shame. He grabbed the teapot and deftly topped up all the cups as a diversionary tactic while his older colleagues smiled indulgently to each other.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and sighed happily.

"You know, Severus, I have an extra reason to feel relaxed today."

"Indeed?" asked Snape, refusing to look up until the flush had gone from his cheeks.

"Oh yes. I have just handed my resignation to the Board of Governors," he stated smugly.

Snape's cup hit the table with a clink and cracked in half, dousing the entire table in hot tea.

"What!" he demanded. "Why! For Merlin's sake, you may not have been directly involved in the last part of the battle, but almost every person on the winning side was fighting under your banner! Surely the Ministry do not blame you for being cursed off the battlefield when we won anyway!"

Albus waved a hand to quieten him, the slightly dotty smile not faltering for a second.

"You are correct, my boy. They do not blame me at all. In fact, I am to receive even more honorary titles and decorations, which will no doubt make signing letters even more time-consuming. I have simply decided to retire."

Snape stared at McGonagall in disbelief. She nodded encouragingly at him. Evidently, this was not news to her.

"But…" he began to argue, then stopped, for once at a loss for words to express his consternation.

"It was not a decision made lightly, I can assure you. I love this school and so many within it. I will miss the place dreadfully, but I think, at one hundred and fifty-one years of age, it is time for me to confine my senile ramblings to the domestic sphere and let the youngsters take over." He grinned at Minerva, who leaned over and smacked him gently on the elbow.

"You're not senile," she corrected him. "Rambling, indubitably, but far from senile."

"Then, my dear Headmistress, it is only right for me to step aside while I am still _compos mentis_. I'm sure you agree, Severus?"

He stared into the twinkling blue eyes for a long moment, wondering if his own sanity could cope with so many fundamental changes to the Established Order of Things. But Fate was not quite finished with him yet.

"Of course," Minerva broke into his reverie, twinkling at him just as brightly. "Albus will be a remarkably hard act to follow and I shall expect to rely very heavily on my deputy."

"Flitwick," murmured Severus distantly.

"No," they both replied in chorus, grinning maniacally now.

He stared. They grinned some more. He scowled. They actually had the audacity to laugh at him. He folded his arms across his chest and sulked. This was not part of the plan, he thought, furiously, until his conscience reminded him that, the last time it checked, he had no plan at all.

"Me?" he snapped.

"Of course," Albus became serious again. "Filius came to me at the end of last term, asking to step down as Head of Ravenclaw. It seems he wants fewer responsibilities here so he can return home to Hertfordshire every evening and write his book."

"A Charms book?" Severus sounded interested, Flitwick had been a champion duellist, his expertise would surely be worth a read.

"A romantic novel, I believe," Dumbledore smiled again and Snape snorted. "But he would not have been my first choice in any case."

McGonagall took up the explanation.

"You are the most qualified person in this school for the job. You have all the necessary qualities, in spades, and I think every member of staff would agree that you are the perfect person."

"Even the old bat in the belfry?" he sneered in flagrant disbelief.

"I am afraid that Professor Trelawney has been unhappy in her position for some years," said Dumbledore evenly, his lively face for once displaying no emotion. "Now that Voldemort is dead and she is no longer in danger over the Prophesy, I was able to give her permission to leave the castle. She chose to do so immediately."

Snape brightened considerably on hearing the news. He and Trelawney had been sworn enemies from the moment he had been caught eavesdropping in the Hog's Head, and her rapturous predictions of his messy and imminent death had been less than amusing.

"Now, aside from your own attributes, Severus, there is another reason for your appointment. I must stress that this is the secondary reason, a bonus, if you will, and I hope you will hear me out." There was a warning in Albus' eyes, and Snape began to dread what was coming next. How typical of these two to flatter him in order to soften some terrible blow. "You, more than most people, are surely aware that the reputation of Slytherin House lies in ruins after almost a century of association with dark wizardry. This has been compounded by a series of Griffindor-led administrations at both Hogwarts and the Ministry, with only scant involvement by anyone from other houses. This has possibly been the result of the Old Boy's Network, but mostly, I think, through coincidence.

"However, it means that practically the only former Slytherins in the public eye are murderers and criminals, and our young snakes have had no positive role models since Lucius Malfoy's disastrous fall from grace."

Minerva took over again, looking faintly ashamed with herself.

"Prejudice against Slytherin is at an all time high. I confess that I have been as guilty as the rest of condemning members of your house out of hand, but we need to begin to redress the balance. As it stands, a quarter of the children are going to suffer because of this, and though it is easier to conceal one's school house after leaving here, our world is small enough to make things difficult for the Slytherin adults too. The wizarding world has suffered enough during this war, we don't need further alienation."

Severus rested his good elbow on the edge of the table and placed his chin on his hand, suddenly weary and worn again.

"You wish me to become a role model to show young Slytherins that they can be a success?"

"Young and old," explained Dumbledore. "And to show everyone else that being cunning is a practical form of intelligence which should be celebrated, not derided. As the Sorting Hat is so fond of pointing out, what is most important is that all wizards should use their individual strengths and work in harmony. Your role in the defeat of the Dark was crucial, and could not have been undertaken by anyone but a Slytherin. Do you understand me, Severus?"

He did not answer immediately. Casting 'reparo' on his broken cup, he re-heated the pot to 90 degrees Flamelheit, poured himself a fresh cup of tea and added precisely the correct amount of milk, stirring it clockwise six times before tapping the spoon twice against the rim and placing it carefully in the saucer.

"There are a dozen reasons why I cannot be held up as a model Slytherin. I was a Death Eater, for a start," he argued.

"You realised your mistake and returned to us. As Miss Skeeter would no doubt tell you, people love a reformed sinner," chuckled Dumbledore.

"My personal lifestyle…" he began, sounding desperate even to his own ears.

Albus became immediately serious. He dunked a biscuit into his tea and chewed it thoughtfully before answering.

"Perhaps it is time that our homosexual students had a role model too," he suggested.

"They do. That rock star with the, ah, _amusing_ hats and what's-his-name from the Wimbourne Wasps. But a teacher? The Board of Governors will never consider it appropriate to have a known queer in a position of authority over tender young minds. They were reticent enough when you made me a Head of House." Snape was wide-eyed now, wondering if McGonagall's proclamation of the old man's sanity had been somewhat premature.

"The Board has always been rather easily led. I fear our newest school governor is already dominating meetings," Albus was twinkling again, but Severus was too engrossed in the discussion to wonder what he meant. "They feel that you have conducted your private affairs with discretion for the last sixteen years, so there is no reason to condemn you on that score."

The large nose which had been trained to perfection by years of brewing intricate blends of delicate substances was already scenting trouble. The drawback with creating idols out of mortal beings was that, like every mortal being, they made mistakes. Unlike normal people however, their mistakes were blown out of all proportion and the disgrace heaped upon them was as passionate as the adulation which preceded it. Look at Lockhart. Witch Weekly was vitriolic in its defamation of the former pin-up. It seemed the famous smile had lost its charm once its attractive owner had been revealed as a ruthless fraud. Severus would have to lead a perfectly blameless life from now on.

"Albus, Minerva, that is an enormous responsibility for one person to shoulder," he told them with a sigh.

Dumbledore watched his face closely, still nibbling on biscuits the whole time.

"Bigger than risking one's life to spy on a homicidal maniac while living in a castle surrounded by the children of his sympathisers?"

Snape shrugged. He honestly did not know. No one had ever looked up to him, he wondered how it would feel to be a figurehead. Perhaps he should ask Potter.

"You _are_ equal to your new task, Severus," Minerva stated with sudden fierceness. "Damn it, I don't know how I will cope doing mine without you!"

He smirked at her determination to make him agree. Perhaps working more closely with the new Headmistress could be rather interesting, she was certainly easier to tease than Albus. He sat straighter in his chair as he thought it over. He had never been one to back away from a challenge, and life was threatening to become rather placid now the war was over. Regaining a little of his earlier amusement, he fixed McGonagall with a serious expression.

"If we have any trouble we could always ask Madam Umbridge. She knows a lot about being a Headmistress."

…….

The next day, a very relieved Kingsley was discharged from St Mungo's. Arriving back at his flat, the place looked strange and unfamiliar, as though he had been away for far longer than three days. Pushing open the French windows, he stepped out onto the balcony and sat on a wooden deckchair to enjoy the fresh air and the view of the river.

His head was still a little misty, though more and more memories were trickling back.

Snape's father's funeral, the startling news about Mrs Figg. Other Kingsley holding off a small army of inferi with streaks of fire while Snape accioed a terrified child from MacNair's bloody grip. All the tiny panes of Flourish & Blott's mullioned windows exploding outwards as unrecognisable figures battled inside. Ollivander's shop glowing with blinding white light as the stacks of wands responded to the overwhelming power of magic surrounding them, while the proprietor sat calmly at his desk as though oblivious to the horrors outside. Hermione Granger calling across the street to the Weasley twins that she had a plan.

It was a pity that the children had been so closely involved, he thought, then frowned. Actually, he was wrong there. It had been about children from the beginning. The battle lines had been redrawn the moment that fateful Avada Kedavara had ricocheted off a toddler's forehead seventeen years ago, changing everything.

He wondered what the effect would be on the social order when a set of teenagers had more than earned the respect traditionally shown to their elders. What could be in store psychologically for those who had grown up too soon? His thoughts meandered to Shastri Khalili. The adolescent veterans were the lucky ones - she had been given no chance to grow up.

Shastri was related to Severus, he remembered. And it was her death which had propelled him into the potion master's arms. Though he was certain that parts of their time together were missing, he could recall plenty of images of their relationship, not all of which made sense. It had been a matter of weeks, during which time they had seen each other fairly infrequently – so why did Kingsley have such a vivid memory of waking, sated and relaxed, and deciding that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Snape?

It _must_ have been the war. It can only have been the knee-jerk reaction of clinging to some comfort when the wider picture was so bleak and devastating. It was a proven fact that people were more sexually active during wartime, as they tried to prove to their terrified souls that they were still alive amidst the overpowering atmosphere of death. There was also a feeling of recklessness which overrode any normal shyness. Why bother agonising over morality if you could be dead the following morning?

That went some way towards explaining his uncharacteristic behaviour. Kingsley's first loyalty was to his job, and he was proud of the fact. Wartime or not, the life of an auror was unpredictable, demanding and dangerous, which was why so few in the department of Magical Law Enforcement had any permanent attachments. It was bad enough that some aurors had parents and siblings to worry about them. Shastri's funeral had reminded them all of their own mothers' silent fears. Even before he qualified, Kingsley had been grateful that he was not the kind of man who settled down, the casual encounters he permitted himself in the anonymity of the muggle world were pleasant interludes on his night off, quite separate from the life-or-death decisions of his working day.

An open-topped boat trundled past the balcony, a uniformed woman with a microphone explaining the Greenwich Meridian in several different languages to a set of gawping tourists. He wondered if any of those baseball-capped muggles had any idea of the huge events which had unfolded in Diagon Alley during their trip to London. Not if the Ministry's muggle liaison office had done its job properly, he hoped.

From what he had been told, Dumbledore, Moody and scores of the other Light fighters had been pushed away from the battle and out onto the bustling Charing Cross Road, packed with ordinary people. Fortunately, Soho and nearby Covent Garden having been the spiritual home of street theatre for over two hundred years, no one batted an eyelid at the sudden appearance of an outlandishly-dressed troop of misfits. A Japanese tourist had even given Mad-eye a pound for his entertaining use of a 'firework stick.'

Kingsley heard the floo flare back inside the house, and turned to see Severus stepping carefully into the living room. Still looking rather delectable, he noticed.

"Good afternoon, I hope I am not disturbing you?" he asked from the hearth, making no further move into the room.

"Not at all," Kingsley assured him. "Do sit down."

They both sat on the sofa, Kingsley's body immediately aware of how close it was to Snape.

"I trust you are fully recovered?" Severus asked him.

"Almost," he replied, trying to fathom what was different about this wizard and the one in his recently-restored memories. Aside from the shorter hair.

"Good," he said. Then he smirked a little, the tone of his voice halfway between pleased and flirtatious. "It would seem that I have received a promotion. You are now sharing a sofa with the Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Kingsley laughed as he gave his congratulations, now realising the change for what it was. Confidence.

The desperate, insecure man he remembered was now no longer in fear of his life, his miserable past had obviously stopped haunting him now that his future was bright. Snape had always been undervalued and overlooked. Now that the world had seen his worth, his whole bearing had changed. The lines on his face now looked distinguished instead of petulant, while instead of slouching like a beaten animal, his shoulders fell backwards into a relaxed posture. The smirk was as enticing as ever, and Kingsley decided he was glad about that.

Black eyes, now sparkling with mirth and not malice, swept questioningly over Kingsley, setting off a series of tiny explosions of lust in the auror's belly.

"Why are you staring?" Severus asked, not with defensive aggression as he might have during Order meetings at Grimmauld Place, but gently as though he were truly interested in the response.

Kingsley reached out and tugged him forward by his hips until their faces were almost touching. Turning his head a fraction to the left he whispered against Severus' ear.

"Because I fancy the Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Snape's breath caught in a ghost of a laugh, and Shacklebolt could feel both their hearts pounding at the sudden proximity.

"Indeed?" purred the potions master. "And do you intend to act upon this unusual emotion?"

Kingsley grinned a wide, white, predatory grin.

"Yes," he said.

…….

AN: Hello my dears! I hope everyone had a fun Halloween, full of cinder toffee, pumpkins, parkin or whatever your regional traditions entail!

Thank you _yet again_ for a lovely crop of nicely-written reviews! I hope you'll forgive me for the newish direction this fic is taking, but I think you'll agree that so much of Severus' personality is based around being downtrodden, he is bound to change fundamentally with all these wonderful new developments. (Even if he hasn't noticed yet!)

Charing Cross Road – As far as I recall, we are not told the exact location of Diagon Alley in London, but the bookshop they use as the Leaky Cauldron in the films is smack in the middle of Theatreland, on Charing Cross Road. I had this mental image of loads of buses, taxis, pedestrians etc swarming around the main tourist areas with their Lonely Planet guides to London, oblivious to Dumbledore et. al. running around trying to get back into the Alley and the desperate battle inside! I'm not sure how the Death Eaters locked them out – some kind of powerful barrier spell, I think, a great strategy anyway – to put their strongest opponents right out of the picture.

Increased sexual activity during war – I nicked this from the Camomile Lawn, by Mary Wesley, though the concept turns up all over the place. Wesley's WW2 youngsters are at it like rabbits during air-raids etc. Wonderful book.

Next time: (Maybe, I never do grand plans, so I won't say for certain.) Kingsley and Severus adapt to their new circumstances. How are Remus & Harry? Who is the new school governor? Is the world really ready for a gay former Death Eater in an important post?

Thanks for reading! (Crosses fingers in the hope of seeing Snape in a nightie in the new GOF film!)


	14. Insubordination

Back again for some KS/SS! I know it's been ages. Just to recap, this is another fic which HBP rendered AU. I fell into the fanon trap of having dear Severus as pureblood minor aristocracy with an unpleasant father, Tristan. Hey, I was close, it began with T.

…….

Kingsley had showered, drunk his coffee and was donning his outer robes by the time the figure in the bed stirred and looked up at him.

"Morning," he said cheerily. Snape blinked and stretched.

"What time is it?" he asked, leaning up and experimentally brushing his fingers over the damaged skin on his arm. He was pleased to note that it barely twinged anymore.

"Ten to eight," Kingsley told him, putting on his watch. "Do you want a coffee before I go?"

"Go?" Severus queried blearily. He sat up straight when he noticed his lover was wearing his auror's robes and apparently making preparations to leave for the Ministry. "They surely are not forcing you to go back to work already? You ought to be permitted more recovery time!"

Kingsley sighed, having already had this argument with himself twenty minutes earlier.

"There's a lot to be done. No one has asked me to go in, but with everyone rushed off their feet the least I can do is go and shuffle some paperwork around. I figured that if I'd come home if I felt ill."

Severus nodded, immediately sympathetic with the need to keep busy. He felt slightly guilty that the only task he had been assigned so far since the end of the war was coordinating the acceptance letters for new batch of first years and leaving them on McGonagall's desk. He had gone from being a warrior to a teacher in the space of a few days, though he was certainly not the only one finding the adjustment between his wartime and peacetime roles unsettling.

Unsettling, not unpleasant.

He got up and hunted around for his clothes so he could head back to school and do something pedestrian and un-earthshattering like brewing a batch of anti-histamine salve for Poppy.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Kingsley mentioned as he bowed Severus through the fireplace. "Mad-eye called a second ago. He said he'd have something to tell you later this afternoon."

Preoccupied with the day ahead, neither man noticed that they had not kissed each other goodbye.

…….

Compiling full Veritaserum statements from the captured Death Eaters would take weeks to complete, as the Ministry was desperate for as much information as possible. Inside the twisted minds of these hated individuals lay the tools for their own prosecution, as well as the explanations behind some of the most heinous crimes history had ever seen. Several families were desperate to discover what had happened to loved ones who had been found dead or obliviated for no apparent reason, or even worse, simply vanished never to be found at all.

Catalogues of horror tumbled from resentful mouths as the aurors worked around the clock to gather evidence. Puzzle pieces from past mysteries fell into place just as often as entirely new outrages were revealed. More than one Ministry employee had been found dead from a self-administered potions 'accident' since word began to spread that no stone would be left unturned.

Moody referred to it as 'crossing the 'I's and dotting the 'T's.

It was during these endless sessions of questioning that Mad-eye learned from a defeated and broken Avery exactly how the late Tristan Snape had become involved in Voldemort's plans.

"You want to see the memory, Snape, or will the transcript do you?" he snapped through the floo, more irritable than usual after five days of catching the bare minimum sleep on the lumpy sofa in the Azkaban human guards' break room, uncomfortable but not prepared to miss a beat for such a puerile reason as relaxation.

"The transcript will be fine," Severus grunted, in no hurry to see his former dorm-mate whimpering out dark secrets while manacled to the dank walls of _that place._

"Fine. For your eyes only then, Snape. Not even your boyfriend has access to this yet, so don't give him a reason to slip up and land in shite with the Classified Info Squad," he copied three pages from the sheaf of parchments in front of him and thrust them through the flames. Sensible of the great favour Moody was granting him by doling out confidential information months before it would be made public, Severus expressed as much gratitude as his personality would allow, which was probably about as much as the old auror was capable of accepting.

"Cheers," he muttered.

"Mm," nodded Moody, and disappeared.

It was the last week of the eventful summer holiday and Severus decided to enjoy a final fling of lassitude before the harsh regimentation of boarding school took over his life again. Changing into his nightclothes at five o'clock in the afternoon simply because he could, he flopped back into bed with the enlightening documents and fumbled under the pillow for a bag of pistachio nuts he had been keeping there in case of emergencies. Balancing the paper on his knees, he cracked the first shell and began to read.

Avery had been in Ontario, on the trail of a dark witch who was rumoured to have developed an incantation which removed the automatic curse damning drinkers of unicorn blood. Voldemort had been very interested in her findings, having convinced himself that the reason he kept losing confrontations with Harry Potter was because the strength of the boy's purity and capability for love gave him an advantage over the indelible taint dogging the unicorn-slayer.

Naturally, the witch was rather secretive about her unsavoury discovery and had Avery chasing all over North America before he found even the vaguest link with her. The link was a seventy-seven year old British wizard who, according to Avery's source, travelled from his home in California to meet with the woman in the wizarding district of Toronto once a week for an illegal medical treatment. Money changed hands, a covert rendezvous was arranged and Avery found himself drinking in a bar with the patient, Tristan Snape.

Voldemort had been thrilled to make contact with his old friend after all these years. Remembering the cunning brain of the boy he had known and the reported bloodcurdling cursing ability of the adult, he ordered Avery to get Tristan on board, delighted at the prospect of adding another powerful dark wizard to his coterie. Tempted by his school chum's gold, which he believed would go a long way towards acquiring the shady potions keeping him alive, Tristan came home to England for the first time in twenty-five years.

If the Dark Lord had been expecting a new lieutenant or kindred spirit, he was sorely disappointed at the return on his investment. The old man's hands shook so badly that no one within five miles was safe when he cast a spell. Years of heavy drinking and disregarding his health had left Snape senior frail and bent, the whites of his eyes yellow and his sharp brain limping bluntly a few seconds behind every conversation. More irritating to Voldemort was his inability to grasp the significance of the war they were waging, or to remember that he ought to use the title 'Master' instead of 'Tom' or – horror of horrors – the old endearment 'Riddikulus'.

After these flaws were discovered, poor Tristan ended up as a kind of dogsbody, performing only the most insignificant tasks. It was Avery's belief that the single reason he was not executed at once for incompetence was the Dark Lord's need for all the troops he could get leading up to the final battle. Setting him to work brewing the tea or dusting the throne room in the Riddle house freed up Wormtail for other duties. Such as kidnapping Harry Potter.

Voldemort cursed himself for letting the 'old moron' (the fate of the first person to remind him that he and Snape were precisely the same age ensured that no one else was so foolish) near his treasured prisoners. Then he cursed everyone else. He had assumed that instructing him to take a jug of Veritaserum-laced water to the cell was simple enough for even his diminished intelligence to handle. He had been wrong. Tristan had pulled enough of his old magical power from wherever the alcohol had entombed it to deliberately drop the wards and let Potter and the squib escape.

His only attempt at justification had been to inexplicably squeal,

"But it was Bella!" Which unfortunately led Mrs Lestrange to think he was trying to shift the blame onto her and to blast him with such a strong series of Cruciatus curses that he was dead in under two minutes.

Severus collapsed back against the pillows as it all fell into place.

Automatically cracking nuts and flicking the shells at the opposite wall, where they struck the wardrobe door with a satisfying 'click', he tried to decide which aspect of Avery's story was the saddest. There was the image he had conjured of a pathetic old man shuffling around Death Eater headquarters, trying to make himself useful and failing miserably. It was hard to reconcile this person with either the memory of the stern and powerful father of his childhood, or with the romantic love of Mrs Figg's life. Judging by the state he had been in, things had not been much easier for Tristan once he left his hated English responsibilities behind.

Then there was the reason he had agreed to join Voldemort. Had he bothered to investigate the most rudimentary facts about Severus's life, he would have realised that his son would have been perfectly capable of creating the dark potions keeping him alive. Any former student would have hazarded with little persuasion that Professor Snape would not object to supplementing his teacher's salary with the odd clandestine, no-questions-asked commission. Instead he had gone to hedge-witches and sold himself to a madman in the mistaken belief that he could make it all better.

Alone in his room, Severus gave a single harsh cough of laughter. That last part sounded uncomfortably familiar.

When Moody and Dumbledore had schemed behind his back (as he liked to describe it) and decided to stop sending him on spying missions six months ago, he had been irritated at the apparent slight. Albus explained kindly that he believed the situation to be too dangerous to risk his colleague's safety any longer. Mad-eye had sneered about him knowing too many secrets to be allowed free access to the enemy. With the headmaster still in the room, Moody hinted that this concern sprang from the possibility of Snape being discovered and tortured into telling all; once they were alone he revealed his real reason. The conviction that the slippery turncoat would inevitably defect back to the other side.

At the time, Severus had seen it as a painful humiliation. Now, he was rather glad. Of all the circumstances in which he had dreamed of rediscovering his estranged father, grovelling beside him at the feet of the same dark lord was not his favourite scenario. He had seen the frail corpse in St Mungo's morgue. It had been something of a mercy that he had not met the living shadow which Tristan had become before his faux pas with Bellatrix Lestrange.

Then there was the really uncomfortable part. Recalling what Potter had told Kingsley, Tristan had given his life – what was left of it - to save Arabella Figg. The man who had never shown a moment's fondness for his own son had effectively killed himself for love.

Severus used his newly confident and rational mind to draw the conclusion that he was quite justified in being upset on discovering that the parent he had written off as incapable of love, had actually just been incapable of loving _him._

That hurt.

An entire bag of nuts and a few dozen 'clicks' against the door later, he had fathomed it successfully. Tristan's world, before becoming a fugitive at least, had been fractured into two distinct halves. Love and Duty. Love had been living with his mistress Bella Micklethwaite, freedom from all responsibilities, joy and peace every day. Then on his brother's death, Duty had taken over. Duty meant living in the formal family home, marriage to a stranger, a thousand rules of how to conform to polite society, learning how to be something he was not. The heir he had created at the demand of his parents had not been conceived through Love, but through Duty. To Tristan, having Severus was as much of a chore as dressing for dinner. He must have abandoned the whole torture chamber of son, wife, castle, society, the explosive day of his flight without a single backward glance.

Reaching the end of his pistachios, Snape smirked sourly at the thought of Potter, saved once again by that power which the Dark Lord knew not, even if it was indirectly.

It would all be so simple now, to lay the blame for his own many mistakes at his father's door. He had the perfect garnish for his usual arsenal of excuses for becoming a Death Eater: bullied at school, ugly, lonely, misunderstood, from a broken home, ignored by his bitter mother and now the crowning glory – Daddy had never loved him. Snape knew that he should not be amused, but the hisses of twisted laughter came and kept on coming until he had to stop to catch his breath.

What a psyche-wizard's cliché I am, he sighed.

…….

At the auror's office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Kingsley stayed behind in the Briefing Room after yet another meeting to consolidate the individual testimonies of the three Death Eaters who had murdered Dudley, Petunia and Vernon Dursley.

Despite the gallons of Veritaserum pouring in through the gates of the prison, there were still numerous discrepancies in the information being collected. It seemed that like beauty, truth also existed in the eye of the beholder, unfortunately generating mountains more paperwork for Kingsley. He had no right to complain, however, scaling the Himalayas threatening to completely overgrow his desk-space was a picnic compared with digging the dirt to build them from Azkaban.

Michael Ivetsy had put forward an interesting theory and Shacklebolt was noting it down in full before he could get caught up in another issue and forget it, when someone rapped their knuckles on the doorframe of the otherwise deserted room.

"I'll be two seconds, I'm just finishing something off," he murmured, without halting his hasty scribbling.

"Sorry," said a voice Kingsley could not quite place. He looked up to see Percy Weasley standing on the threshold.

"Oh, hello!" he smiled. "How are you doing?"

"Better than last time we spoke," he said wryly. He looked it, Kingsley thought, studying him. Outside St Mungo's the night his brother Bill had been grievously injured during the decoy battle in Little Hangleton, the young man had been pale and anxious, chain-smoking in the rain. Now he had the relieved air which many people were manifesting as a result of their delight at the end of the conflict. He seemed taller and stronger, with a hint of the mischief which the auror had noticed in the twins' blue eyes, but never before in his. "You offered then to take me for a drink. I know things are pretty busy up here, but if you have half an hour at some point I'd like to buy you a beer."

"That sounds like a fine idea," Kingsley smiled. "Is everything all right? I mean, nothing's worrying you?"

Percy hesitated.

"Nothing life-threatening. I'd just like a chat, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," the auror reassured him.

…….

Snape stood in the corridor outside the hospital wing wondering whether this was such a good idea.

He had continued to muse about his father's life and death, until he reached the conclusion that as Potter had been one of the last people to see him alive, he ought to speak to him about exactly what had happened at the end. Now he was not so certain this was wise. Did Severus really need to hear the impressions of an adolescent boy who had, while under extreme duress, witnessed a loving exchange between two much older people – one a hopeless Death Eater and the father of someone he hated, the other his cat-obsessed neighbour of almost fifteen years?

Not for the first time, the potion master's scientific curiosity overruled his common sense. There was no guarantee the brat would even agree to discuss it. He had to try.

Lupin was healing very slowly, but he and Potter had been bustling around the castle with the wheelchair, looking happy enough at having survived at all. The werewolf was living in a private room in the infirmary with Potter or Poppy in regular attendance. Snape grimaced. The impoverished wizard was probably exaggerating his injuries deliberately to prolong his right to regular meals and a warm bed.

The door to Lupin's room was ajar, so he cleared his throat as a warning before stepping inside.

"Good afternoon," he greeted.

Lupin was resting on the bed, propped up on pillows but not underneath the covers. He had no visible manifestations of the damage he had suffered, until he turned to Severus and tried to speak. It was clear that he was struggling to control his body. His head lolled limply on his chest, his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his shoulders jerked at random with the effort of concentration. His fists balled and pressed against his stomach, and when he finally gathered enough coordination to articulate, Snape had the impression that his tongue was four times it usual size and made not of muscle, but an unresponsive hard substance under the control of somebody else.

"Eh lo Shev…erush," he ground out at last.

Snape was glad his face's natural impassiveness did not register the shock he felt at seeing his old enemy in this state.

"I was looking for Potter," he said with his usual coolness. He waited while Lupin recommenced the intricate procedure and replied at length;

"Eesh noth ear," there were large gaps between each declaration, where irregular gasps of breath snatched themselves into his lungs, not respecting the structure of the sentence he was trying so hard to complete. "Shoult nobby long. Wouldya like toooo w..ait?"

No, thought Snape immediately, but that curiosity piqued again and he found himself sliding into the visitor's chair to find out more about the spells which had almost killed the werewolf.

"Thank you, Lupin. I understand you are out of danger now. Will you undergo more hospital treatment, or is it simply a matter of waiting for time to heal the damage?" He settled back in the seat and waited for the laborious response, reminding himself that he was in no hurry.

"Rrrregime of. Po…shun. Will havta take em fffforyears," Lupin screwed up his face, jerked an elbow in the air and finally managed to indicate the cabinet beside the bed. "In th…there. Donnnnn't knowthe namesh ov all ov em. Sure y…youdo."

Opening the cupboard, Snape was confronted with a shining array of bottles. Blue, red, yellow, turquoise, purple and clear crystal twinkled at him, the odd solid ceramic jars mingled in with them looking dull and stout in comparison. His trained eye recognised some seriously strong medications and he felt a flicker of grudging sympathy for Lupin. Having no wish to share it, he resumed his usual flat tone.

"You were always abysmal at potions. I suppose that with this little cocktail sloshing around inside you there is no question of taking any wolfsbane?" While the answer formed itself, Severus closed the cabinet and straightened up.

"H…arryyy!" yelped Remus, the question forgotten, or perhaps too complicated to process. Snape turned to see Potter leaning against the door, obviously having had the audacity to silently watch the awkward conversation for some time.

"Hello," the young man strolled in with an odd half smile on his face. "Hello, Professor."

"Pot…Mr Potter," Snape corrected himself halfway through.

"This is weird. I never thought that _you_…" the brat ran his fingers through his hair as he addressed his teacher. Snape raised an eyebrow in a way that would have made a first year whimper and Harry grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Sir. It's just that everyone really patronises Remus because he has trouble speaking clearly since the attack. Oh, they don't mean to. Even Dumbledore gets this look on his face as though he's talking to a baby and tries to finish his sentences for him. Yet you've disliked Remus for decades and _you_ are the only one talking with him properly. Treating him like a normal human being."

Unable to resist such a gift-wrapped opportunity to upset the pair of them at once, Snape assumed a mien of distaste.

"_Weird_ indeed, Mr Potter, as I seem to be the only person aware of the fact that Lupin has not been a human being since the age of six."

Behind him, Lupin inhaled sharply with what may have been either surprise or amusement, but Severus did not turn to find out, preferring to watch outrage flood across Potter's features as the insult – or rather, the cold hard fact - sank in.

Then, without warning, Snape's nose exploded and a brick wall smacked into his back at high speed.

Blinking in confusion, it took a few seconds to register that he was actually lying on the infirmary floor with a broken nose.

"Ha…arryyyy!" shrieked Lupin with something akin to horror.

Only then did Snape realise that after years of torment, harassment, bullying and sniping, that single comment had finally pushed Potter over the edge and the little toad had punched him in the face. Rising to his feet with as much dignity as was possible under such circumstances, he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped up some of the blood, glaring over the top of it at the boy.

Harry stood frozen in the attitude of landing the punch, his eyes wide as dinnerplates behind his round glasses, clearly not quite able to believe what he had just done.

"What on earth is going on here!" McGonagall's voice sliced through the tableau like Sectumsempra. Knowing how distorted his voice would be by the injury, Snape did not speak. Unfortunately neither did Potter. Lupin, obviously agitated by the shock of the event, made a series of indistinct squawks and waved his arms around helplessly. Not receiving a coherent response, Minerva drew her own conclusion, turning to the young man like a hawk spotting a rabbit. "Mr Potter, did you just _strike_ the Deputy Headmaster?"

Harry regained control of himself.

"He deserved it!" he moaned. "He said Remus was…wait a second. Did you just call Snape the Deputy Headmaster?"

"Professor Snape," she corrected automatically. "And yes, Mr Potter, I did."

"Since when?" he sounded outraged and Severus felt a malicious thrill of delight that the Gryffindors had not yet bothered to tell their golden boy about the new staffing arrangement.

"Did Professor Dumbledore not mention his retirement, Harry?" she peered over the top of her glasses, face softening slightly.

"Yes. You're the Headmistress now. But I thought Flitwick…" he tailed off as she shook her head and corrected his nomenclature once more.

Snape levelled what he hoped was the most evil glare of his career at Potter as the realisation sunk in. Unable to hold back any longer, he risked sounding silly and nasal by issuing a polite threat from behind the hanky.

"I ab looking forward to next week, Mr Botter. This bromises to be an _ideresting_ school year."

It was not his fault, Snape mused as he stalked back to the dungeons after letting Minerva fix his nose and generally fuss over him for a while. In the excitement he had quite forgotten about finding out his father's last movements. Perhaps fate had intervened in a highly improbable way and decided that he was better off not knowing. He smirked at the memory of Potter's face.

Potter had declared open hostilities and now it was up to him to respond. There would be no delicate dances around the Death Eater children or unsung support for the Order of the Phoenix to worry about this year, just the simple matter of teaching children and acquitting his deputy's and housemaster's duties. He would not have to shadow the boy-who-lived in case his flashy adventuring threatened to invalidate the title, nor spend each waking moment looking over his shoulder for Death in its many forms. This year, he could unashamedly devote himself to the little war which had been smouldering between him and Potter for the past six years. His head would be swollen even wider than normal from all the adulation since he bumped off the Dark Lord – it was obviously Snape's moral duty to burst the nauseating bubble, for the general good of humanity.

And the good of Potter, whispered a tiny voice inside his head. He grudgingly agreed. It was technically thanks to brat that he was free. Snape would repay the debt by keeping the young hero's feet on the ground in the harshest way possible. And he would have so much fun in the process.

Comforted by the realisation that though everything had changed since the end of the war, one thing at least was still the same, Severus began to plot a selection of direct and covert ways to annoy the hell out of Potter.

It was only when he sat down to an enormous plate of smoked salmon and cream cheese while sprawling on the floor of his chambers with the Daily Prophet crossword that he remembered someone he ought to have contacted during the day. Clue number 9-down, 'Shacklebolt, auror hero of the Battle of Diagon Alley, (8 letters)'. First letter 'K'. Ah.

He had not thought about Kingsley all day. He wondered what that signified. They had agreed, during the war, that when Severus was upset or needed anything he should go to his lover for help. But that had been when he was lost and clingy before the battle, before everything had changed, before the memory loss. They hadn't really discussed the change in the nature of their relationship brought about by the external circumstances, though it was obvious that it, and they as individuals, had changed enormously.

It was not the sort of conversation he relished. Perhaps they would have it another day.

He picked up his quill and filled in I-N-G-S-L-E-Y with a flourish.

…….

AN: Lots of change afoot now! Let's hope our boys can cope. Love to hear you views. Love SN x


	15. Manoeuvres

Kingsley arrived at the Ministry the next morning to find his desk, chair, filing cabinet and each individual item in his workspace had been enchanted to resemble black and white squares of newsprint.

Surveying the office, he noticed that everyone was suspiciously interested in their paperwork, that every face had a rigid expression and consistently failed to look up as he glared at them. A stifled giggle exploded out of someone and he heard Tonks hiss, 'shhh!'

"All right," he folded his arms over his chest and addressed the room. "What's going on?"

"Now, Kingsley, don't get _cross,_" the metamorphagus chided. There were more giggles.

"Yes, sir," deadpanned Michael Ivetsy, "Let's not have _words_ about this."

The door creaked open and Moody arrived. Kingsley was not too puzzled to notice that he appeared to have a spring in his limp this morning. He stopped dead on seeing the adjusted desk and burst out laughing – a sound the aurors did not often hear. They were reminded of a rusty saw gouging through a particularly tough plank of wood.

"Would someone mind explaining what this is all about?" Kingsley found it disconcerting that even Mad-eye was in on the joke. Hestia edged forward with the previous day's Prophet, open at the crossword page. All eyes bored into his face to await his reaction as he read through the clues, trying to make sense of whatever it was that was delighting everyone.

Then he found it. His name was a crossword answer. Good grief.

The aurors held their breath for his reaction.

"You bastards," he grinned at them. They cheered and threw things, laughing and congratulating each other on their collective wit and ingenuity, while Moody clapped him violently on the back.

"Now that's what I call fame," he leered, magic eye spinning as it noted down each and every team-member's amusement.

"You're very cheerful today, Mad-eye," commented Tonks, making no moves to change the desk back to normal, Kingsley noticed. Their boss' face contorted into an expression of extreme smugness.

"Might be because I had a date last night," he said, inexpertly feigning nonchalance.

Everyone froze with assorted expressions of horror, gaping as though they couldn't quite believe it.

"Who with?" asked Kingsley. Moody removed his glass eye and polished it on the corner of his robe with agonising slowness, thoroughly enjoying all the attention. He popped it back in and shook his head to settle it in the proper position, before assuming an almost-innocent little smile.

"Your sister," he turned and stalked away, leaving everyone staring at Kingsley again, no less shocked than before. He groaned and sank into his artfully chequered chair.

"I should have guessed," he sighed, as excited whispering broke out all over the office and at least one person was seen heading out of the door to spread the word to other departments.

…….

Severus felt almost daring. He had stretched out an old blanket on a shaded area of lawn and was updating his lesson plans out of doors, unusually conscious of the need to enjoy the weather as autumn approached. Not that summer was showing any signs of exhaustion yet - the air was still and the sun hot, the smells and sounds of the laziest season filled the afternoon as the Deputy Headmaster sprawled in his nest of annotated parchment.

He had no complaints about the dungeons. They had been his home for a larger portion of his life than he cared to calculate, the dark and the closeness making him feel safe. He could identify the location of every echoing footfall by the variation of sound in each different narrow corridor, could sense the use of dark magic inside the Slytherin common room from a particular corner of his private study, knew which portraits were trustworthy and which rejected his blood-treacherous authority. Once outside the sanctuary of those solid walls, the unexpected could creep up on him much more easily.

However, there was no reason to hide away now, with war over and his chances of survival greatly increased, so he indulged the sudden itch of restlessness which had driven him from the dingy safety of his precious lair and out into the open.

After a productive hour's work, Snape's alert peripheral vision picked out the tall figure of McGonagall strolling towards him, apparently also taking the opportunity to enjoy the sunshine in a light cotton robe and straw hat. He quickly suppressed the strange thought that she looked like a maiden aunt on holiday by the sea, knowing his amusement would make her ask awkward questions.

"Is there anyone sitting here?" she asked, indicating the only corner of blanket devoid of paperwork.

"Not unless Potter has nothing better to do than stalk me wearing his invisibility cloak," he replied dryly, not looking up. She huffed and sat down, deliberately kicking him in the ankle as she arranged herself into a ladylike sitting position.

"Have the two of you resolved your differences from the other day?" she asked sharply.

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," snorted Snape. Minerva heaved a sigh.

"Severrrus," she only rolled the 'r' in his name when she was particularly displeased with him. "Everything has changed. _Everything_. The world is a very different place now, as demonstrated by the fact that you, Mr Big Scary Disciplinarian, are out here sunbathing…"

"I am not sunbathing!" Severus dropped his quill in outrage. "I have been in the shade all the time. And you are one to talk, floating around in your beach-wear!"

"Don't take that tone with me, young man," McGonagall had certain ways of reminding Snape that she recalled perfectly the days when he was a mere slip of a child. Adopting the icy mask she wore when doling out detentions was one of them.

"Are you going to speak to me like that in front of the Board of Governors, Headmistress?" he scowled at her.

"No," she snapped impatiently. "Which is why I'm doing it now, while we're alone. So, behave yourself."  
"Fine," he sulked. "I will if you will."

"Very well," she conceded, arms crossed. "Where were we? Ah, yes. You and Harry really need to calm down in line with this new, peaceful era of wizarding, otherwise the coming school year will be very difficult."

"As you say," he traced the pattern of the new burn scars beneath his right sleeve. "The world is a changed place. Values and customs that we have lived by throughout the war are now out of date - some of those teenagers experienced their most formative years under painful or downright dangerous circumstances. Potter and I need to dislike each other _because_ everything else has changed. I do not really expect you to understand, but I feel that we both require at least one constant."

"Balderdash. You still have Hogwarts and, mercifully, you both still have most of the same people," she disagreed, but with less force than before.

Severus struggled to express some of the sense of disruption simmering quietly inside him since the battle and all the subsequent events.

"I cannot explain it," he admitted defeat at last. "I presume you have already spoken to your precious lion cub. What is Potter's opinion on this proposed cease-fire?"

Minerva pursed her lips and addressed her remark toward the lake, in the opposite direction from Snape.

"I shan't repeat his opinion," her sour face made him smile. "But I let him know that the use of such vocabulary during termtime will result in the loss of many points."

The thought of the brat swearing at his headmistress and former head of house on his account cheered Severus a great deal, though he knew Potter would be horrified to hear it. It would be unbearable to have the boy behaving well, listening when he was spoken to, or - perish the thought - trying to befriend him. Severus shuddered. The sight of the young hero smiling at him would cause unfortunate damage to the space/time continuum, Severus was convinced of the fact. As long as Potters and Snapes were sworn enemies then all was right with the world.

They sat in comfortable silence for a long time, until Minerva cast a sly look at him and asked in a suggestive tone how Kingsley was.

"I have not seen him," Severus admitted, turning back to his parchments. Her disapproving stare made him add, rather defensively, "We have both been busy."

"That, Severus Snape, is the most pathetic excuse I have ever heard. Relationships don't take care of themselves, you know. You have to put in some effort!"

"We are both grown men, Minerva," he grunted, not at all comfortable with the discussion. "There is no need for us to drool all over each other like soppy teenagers."

She flexed her fingernails carefully in a vaguely feline gesture.

"Might I remind you how upset you were last week when you believed his memory loss had ended things between you? It would be a dreadful pity to get through the trauma of amnesia only to have everything unravel due to laziness."

"I am not, nor have I ever been, lazy," he huffed, mortified at her interference, yet aware that he had chosen involve her when it had been convenient for him, so there was little hope of shutting her out now.

"Then go and see him," she smiled.

"Have you any idea how overworked the aurors are at present?" he shot back.

"Surely he is still on short hours as part of his official period of convalescence?" McGonagall was quite obviously enjoying his squirming. "How long has it been since you took him out to dinner?"

Snape stared, thinking back to the times he and his lover had shared throughout the summer, emotional scenes, intimate discussion, a fair bit of sex and some serious fighting, but not a single official 'date'. It had been impossible under the desperate circumstances; they were both key players in a much bigger game, in danger every minute of every day.

He mumbled something.

"Pardon?" asked Minerva, leaning forward.

"I said, I have not," the flush began somewhere near his collarbone and surged upwards until his face was glowing with the ugly pink blotches which assailed him when uncontrollable emotion managed to break through his habitual inert mask. Knowing that he was blushing only made it worse.

"You haven't _ever_ gone out for a meal?" she teased.

"In case it escaped your notice, there was a war on," he snapped. "We were concentrating on staying alive."

"Well, you succeeded admirably and it's all over now," she reminded him mildly. "Perhaps it's time look to the future."

As she walked away, Snape tried to muster resentment towards her to smother the shame and annoyance of having someone else telling him what to do, but as most of her advice had been perfectly sensible, he made a poor job of it. It was only half an hour later when he returned to his quarters to fire-call Kingsley and ask if he had a favourite restaurant that he realised Minerva was merely conforming to long-standing Hogwarts tradition.

She was Headmistress now. Meddling in other people's lives was part of the job description.

…….

Percy was already in the pub when Kingsley arrived and waved him over to a table in a quiet corner.

"Thanks so much for this," the young man smiled ruefully. "I won't take up too much of your time."

"Nonsense," the auror beamed, taking a long swig of beer and smacking his lips. "How's Bill, by the way?"

"OK, I think. He has excellent night-vision, but for some reason is completely blind during the day. No one understands why so he's letting them do all sorts of research and tests on him. He was always very patient," Percy explained. "Mum's fussing something rotten. She's also managing to harass Harry and Remus, though they seem rather glad of the attention."

He gave a small, wistful smile and Kingsley almost choked on his drink.

It was the first time he had ever seen one of the Weasley boys resemble their uncles, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, and the unexpectedness of it stole the air from his lungs.

The late identical twins had been, for want of a better phrase, mad scientists. Their expertise had not been limited to potions – they had spent their every waking moment inventing new spells, incantations, runic codes, and even developing new plants; anything which held their attention long enough to work at. Their huge talent quickly ensured they were incorporated into the special Developments Division of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which basically paid them to adapt their creations into practical tools for the aurors to stay one step ahead of the Death Eaters. The Disillusionment charm had been one of their greatest successes, but the fact that literally hundreds of their ideas were still in everyday use was testament to the originality of their thinking. They had been a great asset to the Light during the first war against Voldemort.

Which was why he had them killed.

"So was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about," Kingsley shelved the past for the moment in favour of the present. He owed it to Fabian to watch out for his unhappy nephew. "Or was it just a bit of company you needed? I can give you an hour on any topic you like, then I have to go and change for dinner."

Percy looked at him, then stared deep into his beer, his ears turning pink with embarrassment, and suddenly Kingsley was on the alert. This had something to do with sex, he guessed, then scrutinised Percy properly for the first time and raised his eyebrows. There was something about his dress, his bearing, his mannerisms, so subtle that only the experienced eye would recognise it. How could he have failed to notice the telltale signs before? Not sex, he corrected himself, sexuality. He braced himself for one of _those_ discussions.

"I heard a rumour, excuse me if it's not true, it's just something I heard and I mean no offence," he hastily got in the disclaimer.

"Go on," prompted Kingsley, trying to sound open and approachable, and not as though he already knew what was coming.

"Well, they say that you're…you know…gay," he stared at the table in mortification, as though the word was a kind of outrageous slur which would earn him a sound hexing. Actually, within the Weasley household, it probably would.

"That's right," Kingsley admitted the truth cheerfully. Relief flooded through Percy and he gave a nervous smile, though he sipped his drink to stall for time.

"How did you know?" he asked the auror at last.

"Pardon? How did I know what?" Kingsley frowned.

"About…your preferences, how did you know?" Percy's ears seemed in danger of spontaneously bursting into flames.

Kingsley doubted that he wanted to hear the real answer to that question, so gave the standard version of starting to notice good-looking boys more often than pretty girls, then trying relationships with both sexes and deciding that he was most comfortable with his own gender. He tried to give the impression that it was different for everyone, though.

Percy hung on his every word, nodded vigorously at certain points as though he really understood.

"And what did you parents say?" he asked when the stream of good advice ended, looking very worried.

"I honestly thought they would flip," Kingsley had to confess. "Somebody else found out and I was forced to tell them before they heard by chance, which would have made it ten times worse. I was dreading it, especially as my stepfather is a very traditional Jamaican man, with harsh views on that sort of thing. But when I managed to stammer it out to my mother she just pinched my cheek and told me that she'd known for years. Caesar never mentions it, but acts exactly the same as he did before, so it hasn't made any difference there." He couldn't imagine Molly or Arthur disowning him or doing anything unkind, though the twins would probably have a field day with a gift-wrapped harassment opportunity like that. "Your family love you, Percy, I'm positive they won't care."

"Maybe. I've just always felt like the odd-one-out in the Burrow, as though I don't really belong there," he said quietly, and was silent for a few minutes. It was not hard to see what he meant, as being one of seven boisterous children, each with their own views and frustrations must have made for interesting family politics. As he was neither the eldest, the best-looking, the naughtiest, the baby boy nor the only girl, Percy must have found it difficult to forge his own identity. 'Being good' probably was not enough to distinguish him in such company. And nobody likes a swot.

"I could be wrong, of course, but I imagine they'll be pleased you chose to share this with them," or most of them will, he added to himself.

They were draining their glasses when the awkward Weasley began visibly preparing another difficult question.

"So is it really true then," his eyes glittered teasingly, looking _exactly_ like Fabian this time.

"What's true?" asked Kingsley.

"You and Snape?"

The older man knew he should have expected this kind of thing from Severus' ex-pupils, but they had still not got round to discussing how to deal with it. The Order already knew, thanks to that dreadful mix-up with the note which had almost convinced Dumbledore that his spy had defected, so he supposed the information would have got around by now. At least Percy, given the subject of their recent conversation, should not be too scandalised by the potions master's sexuality.

"Severus and I have been seeing each other for a few weeks, if that's what you're asking," he answered.

"Really? But he's so nasty!" He bit his lower lip as he realised what he had just said. "Well, I mean, it's not like Snape goes out of his way to show people his good side. If he has one."

"He does," twinkled Kingsley, a little censure in his tone.

The meeting with Percy had exhumed some long-buried memories. He would have been a toddler when his uncles were murdered, Kingsley reflected, so he probably had no recollection of them at all.

Poor Fabian. The inventor had been so interested in everything life had to offer, thirsty for knowledge and so overflowing with radical ideas that he almost seemed to burn with enthusiasm. It was supremely unfair that people like Pettigrew and Umbridge survived while the Prewetts were killed.

With an effort, he wrenched himself back to the present. Out of the blue, Severus had invited him out for dinner, the new Deputy Head's hard-won confidence faltering slightly as he was forced to reveal that he actually knew no decent restaurants, not being one for socialising, except for his time on the New York scene years ago. It would be nice to see his lover after all the hard work of the last few days, and a pleasant way to distract him from his recent despondent thoughts. He wondered why he hadn't come up with the idea first.

…….

Greenwich was buzzing with life as Kingsley emerged from the Thames foot-tunnel and made his way to the Trafalgar pub. It was not the best restaurant in London, but sitting at a table in one of the huge bay windows looking out over the river always made him feel as though he were on holiday somewhere interesting, rather than merely across the water from his own apartment, so he often chose to eat there when the weather was good. All the bars and restaurants had tables outside, packed with noisy people enjoying the warm evening. Skateboarders clattered through the clusters of tourists and students milling around the square where the enormous _Cutty Sark_ ship sat elegantly in its dry dock, three soaring masts and intricate rigging silhouetted against the sky. A pair of overexcited dogs were ignoring their exasperated owners' yells in favour of chasing pigeons round and round the fence protecting the ship.

Striding past the Pier and along the embankment, Kingsley wondered why he was feeling so nervous. It had taken him much longer than usual to get ready, fretting about the appearance of his muggle clothes in the mirror and completely changing the whole outfit at least three times before he realised that he would have to hurry to avoid being late. As he spotted the dark figure hovering outside the pub, he realised why. He had never been on a date with Severus before. They had slept together, fought together, got drunk together and visited each other's homes, but had never appeared together in public as a couple.

Tonight felt very significant.

Severus was unnerved by the crowds, though he forced himself to remember that every individual was probably a muggle, and even if they were not, he had little to fear from wizards now. He hoped the latter thought was true. No one paid him much attention as he stood alone outside the Trafalgar, eyes flicking quickly over each passer-by, unable to switch off the reflex which automatically scanned his surroundings for potential danger. He made a mental note to suggest that next time the auror wanted to eat in a muggle restaurant, he might consider choosing somewhere a little more secluded, though personally, Snape had no idea what was wrong with wizarding establishments.

He saw Kingsley approaching in the distance and frowned. His lover's appearance was the stuff of fantasy – wearing what Severus supposed to be the latest style of jeans and a fitted shirt – showing off his toned torso and drawing admiring glances from most of the females in the area. Snape was under no illusions about his own skinny body and alarming facial features, making him wonder properly for the first time since the upheaval of the last battle, why on earth such a gorgeous creature chose to waste himself on an ugly schoolteacher.

They entered the pub and took a window table, making small-talk about the weather and the view until Severus remembered something.

"Did you happen to peruse the crossword puzzle in yesterday's paper?" he asked, innocently sipping his wine.

"Oh, not you too!" Kingsley laughed, "My esteemed colleagues have been having fun with that." Snape smirked, then turned serious.

"I suppose they also know about our…friendship," he hazarded, not sure how to describe the month and a half of sex and comfort they two men had shared.

"Yes," the auror looked unperturbed. "Percy Weasley knew, too, when I spoke to him earlier. I don't want to deny it, but I suppose you need to be rather discrete because of school, don't you? I don't want your reputation to suffer because of me."

"Nor yours because of me," Snape was relieved at his lover's concern, though he suspected it was in his own interests not to make a big show of his sexuality.

"Oh, it's no big deal at work, the only thing that worries me is that you could potentially be in danger from dark wizards, as all the MLE next-of-kin are. There is a safety network with emergency portkeys and advice on how to stay safe from kidnap or attack," he caught the other man's sneer and chuckled. "Though I imagine you know how to defend yourself better than most."

"Indeed," he agreed. "I imagine that the best way to deal with any interest in our relationship would be to give the bare minimum of information if directly challenged, but to otherwise keep silent. I fear I have never been comfortable discussing my private life in any case."

"Sensible plan," nodded Kingsley, and was about to make another point when Snape interrupted him.

"You look very nice this evening," he blurted, apropos of nothing. "Everyone was looking at you."

"Thank you," he laughed, resting his brown hand over Severus' white one in a casual gesture. "Did I ever mention how sexy you look in muggle clothing?"

The waitress cleared her throat pointedly and they snatched up their menus rather self-consciously, ordering duck salad and baked trout without much contemplation. She smiled ruefully and glanced at Kingsley before muttering something about 'it's always the fit ones'.

After dinner, they took a dusk stroll through the park. It seemed like an oddly intimate thing to do, more so than their desperate private trysts during the war. Severus supposed this was because they were publicly declaring themselves to be a couple. He tried to recall the walks in Central Park with Anthony, years ago, and how it felt to present their union to strangers – had it seemed a natural thing to do back then? Or had the faint embarrassment he was feeling now been there in New York too, just eclipsed by the weight of subsequent traumas.

Not that he had anything to be embarrassed about, he reflected, glancing sideways at the handsome auror. If Kingsley chose to spend time with him rather than any of the pretty young things which he was more than capable of attracting, that was Kingsley's problem and Severus' good fortune. He knew that walking in a magical area, in front of people they knew would be a whole different matter, however. Was the wizarding world ready for the unpleasant Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts to openly flaunt a lover and declare that he needed companionship as much as everyone else? For that matter, was Snape ready for it?

"What's wrong?" the rich, deep voice brought him back to the present with a jolt.

"Nothing," he said quickly.

"Are you sure? You look worried," Kingsley stopped and turned to face him, trying to read his eyes. "Would you rather be at home?"

"I…" began Snape, not sure of the answer. Kingsley, mindful of the admiring looks his lover had been casting at his body all evening, put both hands on his tiny waist.

"Or would you rather be at my home, in the privacy of my bedroom?" he asked huskily.

Severus flushed and nodded, wondering why he felt the need to do so much thinking. He doubted that a Gryffindor would have agonised so much over the situation, preferring to just dive in headfirst and deal with the consequences later. It was a disastrous mentality during a war, but perhaps better for a time of love than his endless introspection. He allowed his cheek to be kissed before they apparated back to Kingsley's home across the river, ready to wash away his concerns with a flood of passion.

…….

An unnerving dream about his sister and Mad-eye Moody started Kingsley awake at four in the morning, so vivid he contemplated asking Severus to obliviate him.

Shuddering, he padded quietly to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, realising with some irritation that it would take a long time to get back to sleep. He wondered briefly whether he should wake Snape for a repeat performance, but decided it was probably rather unfair. Small snores filtered through from the bedroom. It was nice that he was able to sleep after the huge events of the summer.

Kingsley wondered what had been troubling his lover over dinner. His mind had obviously been elsewhere and the auror wondered whether he ought to be concerned about it. Severus could have been lost in reflection on so many serious topics – the battle, his injuries, his father's death, Mrs Figg-the-strumpet, the fight with Harry Potter, his new responsibilities; probably a host of other things Kingsley was not aware of besides – it may not have been anything to do with their relationship. Yet they still had not managed to have a serious discussion about the future, or indeed, even about the present. It ought to be done soon, if only to reassure both parties that they were playing on the same Quidditch pitch. It would be awful to mess everything up due to some needless misunderstanding.

He was under no illusions about what is would mean to be the long-term partner of the man in the next room. Snape was stubborn, uncommunicative, anti-social and often downright _nasty,_ as Percy had observed, though Kingsley was willing to put up with these traits for the sake of his first taste of stability for several years. Already, the piles of paperwork which he spent all day processing, detailing horrendous acts of cruelty and malice, affected him much less now that he could hold onto the thought of having someone to soothe his grief. Even though he did not see Severus every night and even though the potions master was not particularly sweet or nurturing when they were together, the simple knowledge that he was no longer alone seemed to be enough reassurance.

Sipping his water alone in the darkness, he mused on the miracle that had allowed them both to survive this far. Unbidden, the memory of Fab Prewett's smile, alive and well on Percy Weasley's face flashed into his mind, quickly followed by the memory of the inventor's hand wandering up his thigh. That was not something his nephew needed to hear about, though if Molly was aware of her late brother's penchant for young black men, he might already suspect. Gideon certainly delighted in teasing his twin about it.

Fabian had been Kingsley's first male lover – he had been Fab's last. By the auror's calculations, the Death Eater murder squad had arrived at the workshop no more than ten minutes after he had adjusted his clothing and sloped off back to the Ministry with the usual excuses about why it had taken him half an hour just to collect a consignment of Freeze Frame Flingers. At the time, the guilt of having missed the attack had been stifling. His teen arrogance insisted that he would have been able to make a difference had he been there to help them fight, despite Moody sneering that the only change would have been three body bags instead of two.

Everyone said he had made a difference this time. In fact, he was such a hero they were using his name in the Daily Prophet crossword. He snorted at his colleagues' silly joke that morning and shook his head. There was bound to be more nonsense over his relationship with Severus, once they got bored of winding him up about the puzzle or Saffron's date with Mad-eye, and he wondered how his taciturn lover would react to being a source of general amusement. Probably the time he had spent in the zoo-like atmosphere at Hogwarts had made him immune to such jibes, but he wondered if the same was true of the Board of Governors.

If it ever came down to a choice between his boyfriend and his career, Kingsley was not convinced that Snape would throw away everything he had worked towards for the sake of their relationship. Neither was he sure he would want him to.

Cursing the wakefulness which was provoking all these needless negative thoughts, he finished his drink and headed back to the bedroom. He reasoned that there was nothing to be gained in worrying about potential hazards in the future, when the present was nicer than it had been for years.

He slid underneath the covers and rolled carefully on top of his sleeping lover, sucking and nibbling at his ear until he stirred and wrapped his arms around him.

"What time is it?" he gasped sleepily, running one hand over Kingsley's bald head.

"Does it matter?" he slurped back.

"Mm. I suppose not," Severus sighed, contentedly. "I was having such a pleasant dream about Potter."

Kingsley stopped abruptly and glared.

"What?" he asked, incredulous and slightly perturbed. Snape licked his lips and pulled him back down for more kisses.

"I just gave Filch permission to manacle him to the floor. For a week," he grinned.

"You are so…" Kingsley struggled for the right word to adequately describe Severus without causing too much offence.

"Synonym of 'unpleasant', five letters, begins with 'n'," he whispered, soliciting a deep groan from a man who was completely fed up with crosswords. "You knew that from the very beginning."

Remembering the stranger times they had spent together, where Severus had been clingy and insecure in counterpoint to Kingsley's struggles with his own demons, he was glad that things were back to normal. He much preferred seeing scornful amusement in those lovely black eyes than the hollow despair haunting them before the battle.

"Yes, you have always been n-a-s-t-y," he spelled aloud, lazily stroking sallow skin. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

…….

AN: I think the next chapter will be the last (finally!). At this point I'm envisaging a chat with Mrs Figg, the start of the new school term and the much-needed 'little talk' between Kingsley and Severus…uh-oh!

Sorry again for taking so long, thanks again for reading and I still love to hear your opinions! Love SN x


	16. Parade

OK, I confess, this is NOT the final chapter! I really tried to get everything tied up in one go, but it was all getting a bit cramped and messy, so there will be another after this! Apologies for being misleading.

……

Ever the jovial dictator, Dumbledore decreed from the outset that he would be enjoying two retirement parties, and that any objectors would be mercilessly crushed with a strategic double-headed attack involving infuriating twinkly anecdotes and force-feeding with sugary snacks.

The first would be the predictable staid occasion organised by the Ministry in Hogwarts' Great Hall, attended by representatives from all the leading wizarding institutions across the world, as well as a generous smattering of political figures. There was to be a formal seven-course dinner, coffee, mints, port and ritual pipe-smoking, after a few hours of worthy speeches and a presentation.

The second would be Albus' own choice - a garden party in the grounds, to which all his students, friends and sparring partners - past and present - would be invited. There would be dancing, juggling, pie-throwing contests, a five-legged race and lots and lots of cake.

To Snape's chagrin, he received magically indeclinable invitations to both.

Gripping the sides of the washbasin to steady himself, he rested his forehead against the bathroom mirror and briefly enjoyed the feeling of coolness seeping into his skin. The previous day, Madam Malkin had demonstrated the straightforward, hassle-free method for tying his new bow-tie and fixing his collar so that it allowed the free flow of air and blood through his neck in less than five seconds. Almost forty minutes after beginning the operation unassisted, Severus was still closer to achieving accidental hanging than formal dress.

It was all Shacklebolt's fault, of course. With his perfect frame and attractive face, the gorgeous auror was capable of winning hearts even if wearing a house-elf's dirty pillowcase. Bearing this in mind as he dug out the old black velvet dress robe had always thrown on as a nod to convention, he suddenly noticed the garment's outdated style, the small burn on the cuff from when an over-excited Fawkes had burned during one Christmas meal, the way the hem was slightly too short for him now that he walked with his shoulders drawn confidently back instead of in the protectively hunched skulk he had worn all his adult life. There was no way a new outfit could make him as handsome as Kingsley, but purchasing something a little more smart would indicate that he was doing his best with what was available.

There was also the matter of not showing his lover up in public. It was going to be painful enough to endure the uncomprehending stares of those who knew that Kingsley could do much better in terms of partner, without knowing that he looked as shabby as Filch into the bargain. Personally, he liked to think had given up worrying about other people's opinions years ago, but there was the reputation of Hogwarts to consider now, as well as his own. The Deputy Headmaster had an image to present.

He leaned back and eyed the dickie-bow.

"This is your last chance," he threatened it darkly. The mirror sniggered.

…….

Kingsley had never seen Hogwarts looking so posh. Silver plated braziers blazed along the guests' path all the way from the gates, brilliant white flames leaping above their heads into the sky; hundreds of fairies, strung together on long silver ribbons, hung from the ramparts right down to the ground; inside every ancient surface gleamed with polish and gilding. He had the impression that even the spiders had been given a bath for the occasion.

At the entrance to the Great Hall, the New Headmistress and Deputy Headmaster greeted the visitors and showed them through to where the man of the moment was holding court in the middle of the throng, telling inappropriate stories about chamber pots and Uncontrollable Foam crystals. The eye-catching McGonagall tartan dated from the 9th century, when the need to spot your fellow clansmen across a misty glen outweighed any pansy Sassenach-driven concerns about style. Beside the alarming blend of Highland yarns sported by the youngest of the brave family's kin, Snape was a subtle vision in black and white tailoring.

"You look very nice," Kingsley told him, keeping hold of his hand longer than convention dictated. Snape's expression remained blank, though his eyes sparkled at Kingsley for a second.

"Thank you. I confess I was forced to seek assistance with the uncooperative neckwear," he nodded to McGonagall, who grinned as she shoved the chatty Malaysian Minister for Magic through the doorway in Dumbledore's direction.

"They're far easier to tie on others than on oneself, I understand," she said, digging the auror in the ribs. "Although, you should have been helping, not I. Taking care of Severus is your job, young man!"

Accustomed to masking their emotional reactions, neither wizard visibly flinched, though both sets of finely-tuned senses picked up the thrill of tension as it flickered through the other.

"Please go through, Auror Shacklebolt," Snape said evenly. "The seventh-years will offer you sherry or pumpkin juice. Dinner will be served at eight."

"Thank you, Professor," Kingsley replied, turning to kiss Minerva's hand to cover his reluctance to look his lover in the eye. "Good evening, Headmistress."

The hubbub of voices swallowed Kingsley as he strode into the room. All around, eminent witches and wizards were flattering their neighbours with unnecessary compliments, braying about their wealth and power, or simply exclaiming over the rich velvet hangings. Over the head table hung a tapestry Kingsley had never seen before at the school, clearly centuries old, depicting the four founders and their mascots, with Hogwarts castle clearly visible in the background, though looking much smaller without its later extensions.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Molly Weasley saw him gazing in wonder. "They only bring it out for very special occasions. The preserving charms Helga Hufflepuff put on it are still intact."

"Incredible!" he agreed, automatically paying most attention to Rowena Ravenclaw in her simple blue robe, somehow managing to ignore Godric Gryffindor's enormous sword and flowing golden locks in favour of internal contemplation. He wondered if Slytherin's louche expression as he suggestively handled his big snake was the reason they kept the artwork away from impressionable teenagers. It was certainly putting impure thoughts into his supposedly more mature head, though of course that could just be Salazar's dark brows and long nose reminding him of another sensual pureblooded wizard.

He wondered whether Minerva was right, that he should be looking after Severus. The spy had never seemed the type of person who needed looking after. He turned back to see him conversing stiffly with an enormously fat man in a fringed suede robe and a Stetson whose laughter drowned out every other sound in the room. He clapped Snape on the back and called him 'buddy'. Even from this distance, Kingsley could see McGonagall was almost wetting herself with laughter.

"How is Percy?" he asked. Molly's face relaxed completely into a smile which consumed her whole body in one go.

"He's fine," she murmured. "He came round on Saturday and we had a long talk. Things have been difficult over the last few years, but I think we're going to be all right now. He said you helped him about the gay thing."

"It can be confusing at first," Kingsley said non-committally, the last thing he needed was the entire Weasley family on the warpath, thinking he somehow gave the kid ideas. "I just told him to talk to you about it."

He should have expected the hug, but it caught him unawares and his sherry jerked out of its glass and onto the floor, where it vanished immediately. The elves were clearly working overtime this evening.

"Thank you," there were tears in her eyes as she squeezed the life out of him. "It's my fault he feels neglected. It was so hard trying to keep the twins in line when they were little, I hardly ever spoke to poor Percy."

"Er, I'm sure you…" Kingsley began to feel slightly out of his depth now. Fortunately, the mother-of-seven was talking, not listening.

"I don't believe he thought I would mind about a little thing like that! Of course, he never knew about my brothers, screaming queens, the pair of them, and no one loved them any less for it, not even when Fabian used to go on holiday to San Francisco cruising for handsome black men! Percy is my son and nothing can change that! And I like to think I played a big part in smoothing the way for Severus' promotion too, shaking up those other fuddy-duddies on the Board of Governors. Honestly, some of them are a good hundred years out of date with their views! I'm so happy he is being rewarded for everything he's done, and that the two of you are settled together and not lonely anymore!"

Pushing aside a cocktail of mixed emotion on hearing about Fabian's other conquests and her implications about his life before and after getting together with Severus, he picked up something intriguing in her gush of speech.

"You spoke to the school Board about Severus?" he asked.

"You could say that," she chuckled, with a little self-conscious pride. "As Governor-in-Chief I was able to suggest it in no uncertain terms."

"You've replaced Lucius Malfoy?" The auror was beaming along with her now. "Merlin, he would hate that!"

A sparkle of malice crept into her cheerful expression.

"I know," she smirked.

For both wizards, the evening dragged on as a blur of rich food, insincere congratulation and hot air. Dumbledore openly dozed through Fudge's hour-long speech and Fawkes deliberately decided to burn up just as the Minister finished, diverting the token applause for the sweaty speaker to his own, more impressive entertainment.

"Never mind, Cornelius," Albus awoke just in time to carefully pocket the ugly bald chick wriggling on the tabletop. "The eyebrows should grow back in due course."

Severus did not spend much time with Kingsley, being busy with his Deputy's duties, but as yet another bottle of port circulated around the table, he managed to whisper that all the entrances and exits, false conversation and fancy costumes made lent the evening a theatrical atmosphere.

Kingsley laughed and agreed, glancing round at the unlikely cast of characters.

…….

_Enter pretty black middle-aged woman with an enormous afro and shimmering golden robes; accompanied by a suspicious-looking man with a wooden leg and crazy magical eye._

Saffron Shacklebolt: Ah, Severus! Finally I get to chat to the guy who has made an honest man of my little brother! Welcome to the family!

Snape:_(with consternation)_ Madam, I…

Mad-eye Moody: _(with confusion)_: Hold your hippogriffs, does this mean me and him are in-laws now?

(Snape _and_ Moody _stare at each other with mounting horror.)_

Snape: _(Looking wildly around the hall, then fixing on someone miles away.)_ Please excuse me, I believe I have spotted some underage drinking in the far corner.

_(Exit _Snape_, at speed.)_

…….

_(Enter two read-haired youths, in matching dragonhide robes which are so bright they scorch the very retinas of all who dare approach.)_

Fred Weasley: _(Cheerfully.)_ Kingsley!

George Weasley: (O_ffering his hand to be shaken, which _Kingsley _almost takes but pulls back just in time_.) The main man!

Kingsley: Hello, lads. How's business?

Fred: Rushed off our feet…

George: With orders for all the victory parties…

Fred: And the weddings…

George: So many weddings! Seems like everyone's at it…

Fred: Since the war finished. Love is all around…

George: For you as well, Percy says!

Fred: Ooh, yeah! How's old Snapey?

George: So sweet that he's finally getting some.

Fred: Very brave of you to agree to spend the rest of your life staring at that hooter.

George: Does he call you a dunderhead?

Fred: Does he wear black in bed?

George: Does he take points for poor performance?

Fred: _(Whacking his brother in the arm.)_ Fred! Behave yourself!

George: _(Whacking him back, even harder._) Hoi! You behave yourself! And _you're_ Fred!

Fred: No, you're Fred!

George: No I'm not!

Fred: Yes, you are!

(Fred _and_ George _fight until separated by kindly bystanders. _Kingsley _wanders off, sighing.)_

…….

_(A teenage boy with a scar on his forehead shaped like a bolt of lightening is sitting in a shadowy corner of the room, talking to a girl with bushy hair and an older wizard in a wheelchair. The young witch holds his hand tenderly, but not proprietarily. Periodically, the disabled man gives a violent twitch, or rolls his head spasmodically. Enter _Snape.)

Snape: _(In dripping tones of honey-glazed evil.)_ Potter.

Harry Potter: _(Looking uneasy and holding the girl's hand tighter._) Sir.

Hermione Granger: _(With real affection.)_ Good evening, Professor. Congratulations on your promotion!

Snape: _(Suspiciously.)_ Hm.(_Turning to the wheelchair.)_ Lupin. Feeling better?

Remus Lupin: _(Executes complicated sequence of jolts and tics._) Yah.

Hermione: Sir, Harry has something to say to you.

Harry: _(Glares at her.)_ No, I don't!

Hermione: _(Glares back even harder.)_ Yes, you do.

Harry: _(Sulkily, to Snape.)_ She wants me to say I'm sorry I hit you.

Snape: _(Raises both eyebrows.)_ Are you sorry, Potter?

Harry: _(Thinks about it for a long time.)_ I shouldn't have used violence. For that I'm sorry. But I still think you deserved it for being so bloody vile to people all the time.

Hermione: Harry!

Snape: _(Wryly.)_ Your honesty is most refreshing. You understand that I am going to make your final year at this school as unpleasant as possible, in order to counterbalance the fawning adulation of the rest of the world since your defeat of the Dark Lord? And also because I enjoy it.

Lupin: _(Makes a bastardised, rattly chuckling sound which is uncomfortable to hear.)_

Harry: _(Shrugging.)_ I wouldn't expect anything less.

Hermione: _(Exasperated with both of them.)_ No! It wasn't supposed to be this way! There's no reason to squabble and hate each other now that the biggest evil of our age has been defeated! The world should be better now, happier. What on earth have we all been fighting for?

Snape: _(With a surprisingly patient expression, considering.)_ I cannot speak for the rest of the combatants, but I myself was fighting to restore normality to our world. Normal life consists of disagreements and clashes of personality at every turn. Miss Granger, if you have somehow managed to live within the wizarding world for six years without noticing that its natural state is one of antagonism and struggle, then I am sorely disappointed by the general opinion of your being the brightest witch of your age.

Harry: _(Through narrowed eyes.) _Hey, are you having a go because she's muggle-born?

Snape:_ (Somewhat exasperated.)_ No. Merely her foolhardy supposition that the end of the war will spell love, harmony and fluffy bunny rabbits for evermore.

Harry: _(Rather amused at hearing Snape say 'bunny rabbits'.)_ Just checking.

Hermione: _(Filing his views away for later investigation and/or library research.)_ So does this mean you're not going to marry Auror Shacklebolt, Sir?

Snape: _(Goes deathly white, then vermillion red, then back to white again, all the while making a sort of strangled effort at breathing.)_

Hermione: _(Either oblivious to his reaction, or pretending to be)._ Because same-sex marriage is legal in the UK now, though I don't think any witches or wizards have taken advantage of the new law yet. I thought it would be one of the first things on your agenda, making sure such a handsome man doesn't get away!

Harry: _(Surreptitiously lets go of her hand and buries it deep in his pocket, lest she get ideas._) Um. Hermione...

Lupin: Nyyeatch! _(Begins shaking all over, rolling his eyes wildly and writhing painfully. He flings his head back so hard he tips the wheelchair over backwards and waves his legs in the air. The others rush to right him, except Snape, who caught the werewolf's eye a split second before the dramatic spasm occurred and saved him from the hellish turn of Granger's conversation.)_

Snape: _(To himself, as he escapes in all the confusion)._ Merlin…

…….

_(Kingsley and Severus try to catch a private word in a corner of the hall but are interrupted by a young witch with green and yellow hair, who is ever so slightly intoxicated.)_

Tonks:_ (Beaming.)_ Hi guys! Aw, you're both looking dapper tonight! You make such a lovely couple!

Snape: _(Tries to escape but is grabbed firmly by Tonks.)_

Kingsley: Thanks, Tonks. _(Warningly.)_ Why don't you go and say hello to Saffron now?

Tonks: _(Swaying slightly.)_ Already have. Can't understand what she sees in Mad-eye though. Funny thing, innit?

Snape: Highly unlikely.

Kingsley: Don't be fooled. She may be better looking, but she's no less suspicious and calculating than him.

Tonks: _(Stumbles forwards and steadies herself on both men._) Oopsie! Little bit too much port, I think. Couldn't help it, Fudge was being so boooring. I bet my teeth are stained purple. _(Shows them.)_

Snape: Delightful.

Kingsley: Yep, they are.

Tonks: Anyway, what was I going to say? Oh, I know. Odd couples! Some people said it was really weird when you two got together but I think it makes perfect sense. You're both serious, professional people who work very hard. Sure, Snape can be a miserable old sod but Kingsley can knock off his corners, now! _(Slaps Kingsley hard on the shoulder.)_ I trust you to make something of him! So, have you started looking for somewhere to live yet? Or is Kingsley going to move into the dungeons?

…….

The panic swelled up inside Severus' chest, adrenaline making his body itch to do something drastic. Running fast and far until his legs gave out seemed like a great idea; or curling up into a tight foetal position and rocking until everything went away. In younger days, he might have punched his fist into a solid surface until either broke, or picked a fight in Knockturn Alley.

But everything was different now. A man in his position could not charge around like a volatile teen, lashing out at possibly-innocent bystanders to assuage his guilt. Nor, he supposed, was he permitted to head to New York and get banged by as many anonymous beefy bikers as he could take in a single evening, not now he _belonged_ to Shacklebolt.

Ducking out into the entrance hall, an unexpected alcove appeared in the wall and he gratefully slid into its dark sanctuary. Since accepting the Deputy position, the castle seemed much more accommodating of his needs, offering up short-cuts and hiding places with reassuring precision. He liked to think it was finally accepting him as a permanent fixture.

He rested his head against the stone and took some deep breaths. Every person he had spoken to that evening had been hell-bent on interfering in his private life. It was utterly intolerable that the whole world believed they had a right to lecture him, discuss him, laugh about him – though he was self-assured enough to accept that no malice lay behind the teasing. Running a finger between the asphyxiating collar and his damp neck, he mentally stacked up the uncomfortable incidents and tried not to let his feeling of bewilderment turn to anger.

No one had ever cared about his personal life. The fact that he was now sleeping with Kingsley had suddenly blasted the doors off his bedroom and made their intimate moments a topic for public discussion. What next? Inches in the gossip column of the newspaper? Nosy questions from the students? Discussion at the dinner table about the kind of lubricant they preferred? He clenched his teeth so hard they hurt right down to the roots. It was no one else's business but theirs. Why couldn't everyone just _leave them alone!_ If this was Peacetime, perhaps he preferred War – when people had far more important things to occupy their minds. War was easier to handle. He had spent most of his adult life embroiled in it one way or another, and it always became a simple matter of trying to stay alive. Now the enemy was not trying to end his life, just make it a living hell.

He remembered the initial feeling of horror on arriving at Hogwarts at 11 years of age and being expected to share his space and his thoughts with strange children. As far as he could recall, he had felt exactly as he did now. The nauseatingly wholesome atmosphere of boarding school, where he had to shower naked next to other boys, sleep amidst their snores and flatulence, listen while they talked during meals, wear his tie in the particular way which marked one as 'cool' not 'square' and generally be expected to act the part of a member of the community. The same community who were bothering him today.

He hated the word 'community'.

It stood for going with the flow, following the leader, believing popular opinion, and living up to the expectations of others, like a flock of mindless sheep. Snape was an individual – shy, awkward and a bit odd – then as now, so having to be part of the unremarkable crowd appalled him. Privacy was viewed as some kind of sin back then, but middle-aged Severus needed it as desperately as little Severus had, feeling violated whenever strangers breezily crashed through his personal space. It was an abnormality, a serious flaw of character, he had realised this during his first week of hellish public life at school; but nevertheless part of his identity. Other people might be able to share their every thought with the _community_, but not Severus Snape. Wrong or right, it was fact.

Footsteps nearby announced the end of even this brief moment of peace from harassment and Severus wished it was possible to apparate away, or pull out an invisibility cloak like Potter's. Perhaps he should look into acquiring one. He stood immobile, hoping the blasted intruder would not notice his hiding place.

"Severus?" The enquiry was soft, spoken in the rich, deep voice of the last person on earth Snape wanted to speak to just then. The little irritated intake of breath which escaped his still-clenched teeth was enough to give him away. "Severus? There you are!"

Kingsley's face appeared around the corner, his mild expression becoming concerned on seeing the other's tense posture. "Are you all right?"

A seething cauldron of potential plans bubbled in Snape's head as he pondered his next move. Kingsley was a wonderful man. Good, honest, trustworthy and unemotional. He deserved the truth.

Snape swallowed.

"Kingsley," he began, but had to stop when his tongue seized up. There was silence as he willed himself to speak.

"Yes?" prompted the auror gently. There was more silence. Eventually, Severus cleared his throat.

"Kingsley," he said again.

"Yes?"

More silence. The tiny drip of wax from a guttering candle on the other side of the hall seemed loud as an explosion to the two men standing together in the shadows. Snape summoned every ounce of his Slytherin courage and made a last attempt at communication.

"Kingsley?"

"Yes?" he repeated, with infinite patience.

"I'm so sorry. I can't do this."

…….

AN: Oh dear. They shouldn't have put off the 'little chat', should they? Snape is a firm believer in Sartre's maxim; "L'enfer, c'est les autres." And so am I, as another reluctant ex-boarder.

Thanks for reading! And for saying such nice things. Next chapter is already being tweaked, so shouldn't be too long! x


	17. Passing Out

_Snape swallowed._

"_Kingsley," he began, but had to stop when his tongue seized up. There was silence as he willed himself to speak._

"_Yes?" prompted the auror gently. There was more silence. Eventually, Severus cleared his throat._

"_Kingsley," he said again._

"_Yes?"_

_More silence. The tiny drip of wax from a guttering candle on the other side of the hall seemed loud as an explosion to the two men standing together in the shadows. Snape summoned every ounce of his Slytherin courage and made a last attempt at communication._

"_Kingsley?"_

"_Yes?" he repeated, with infinite patience._

"_I'm so sorry. I can't do this."_

…….

"Do what?" asked Kingsley.

"This," Severus vaguely waved his hand in the air, still struggling to articulate.

"The party? It's almost over now! Or did you mean being Deputy Headmaster?"

"No," he shook his head. "Us."

Kingsley blinked.

"What?" He sounded confused.

"I…you are a uniquely fine person, possessed of qualities admired by all. And no one admires you more than I," Snape's collar was becoming tighter by the second. "Nevertheless, I find myself unable to continue with our present arrangement."

Finally understanding, Kingsley gave a small snort of disbelief.

"You're dumping me?"

"Not you!" Severus ran his hands over his face helplessly. "It's…I can find no fault with _you_…"

"Then what's the problem?" he interrupted.

"The situation…I cannot…it is not…" the professor became so flustered that Kingsley was concerned.

"It's OK, take your time," he took Snape's elbow to try and calm him. "Look, we shouldn't be discussing this out here. Let's go to your rooms, sit down and talk properly."

"Perhaps that is advisable," he agreed slowly.

Kingsley did a double take as he noticed a door in the opposite wall which he swore had not been there a moment earlier. With a wry smirk, Snape recovered himself and strode through it, gesturing for the auror to follow him. A few dim staircases and damp corridors later, they arrived directly outside the Head of Slytherin's chambers.

They sat in silence for a long time, Snape twisting his hands in his lap with such force that his joints kept cracking as he searched for the right words. Kingsley sat patiently wondering why everything had suddenly gone wrong, all the while trying not to look at the coffee table in the centre of the room. The sight of it transported him instantly to the day Tristan Snape had been found dead, when Severus had begged for fierce and desperate distraction-sex on the floor of this room, ripping clothes, kicking over the furniture and messing up the whole area. The glimmer of arousal in his lower abdomen was curdling unpleasantly when combined with the leaden feeling of dread that the whole affair would be over in a matter of minutes. Unable to stand it any longer, he decided that he had given his lover enough time to collect his thoughts.

"Please will you tell me what's going on?" he asked.

Snape looked up with a jolt, as though he had forgotten there was someone else in the room.

"I…seem to be having trouble formulating sentences," the teacher looked completely miserable now. "There are matters which require explanation…careful phrasing…"

"Look, Severus," Kingsley leaned forwards and rested his elbows on his knees, moving slightly closer. "I work with Mad-eye Moody on a daily basis. He doesn't mince his words, as I'm sure you know. Neither did my sister while we were growing up. I am remarkably difficult to offend. Just say whatever is upsetting you and we'll fathom it out." He smiled sadly as Snape, who was sitting stiffly across from him like a condemned prisoner. "I won't be marking you on your grammar."

The small joke caused a twitch of top lip which may have been a smile trying to break through the troubled countenance. Severus heaved a tremendous sigh and rubbed his eyes.

"Very well," he began, fixing his eyes on a corner of the rug, which unfortunately also reminded the other man of the erstwhile wild romp held upon it. The explanation began slowly and clearly, but sped up as the words began tumbling out of his mouth, getting higher in pitch and intensity. "You are a good man and an excellent lover, I have greatly enjoyed our times together. We found each other at a time when we were in need of solace and escape, but we have both changed a lot since the end of the war. I… am ashamed to admit that I have no wish to think about co-habitation or marriage, or fidelity, or having to appear in public as couple to be analysed and gossiped about, to talk about private matters with strangers and…be winked at by nosy interfering bastards who have no idea how I think or what is really going on…and have to justify the fact at I'm in a homosexual relationship to students' parents or have anyone else tell me that I'm lucky to have you because you are so fine and handsome and I'm a freak whom everybody hates."

Gasping for breath as he finished, Severus flung himself up out of the chair and faced the wall.

"I'm sorry, Kingsley," his voice trembled and he made no move to turn around. "It is so…frustrating that I cannot be rational about this. It all sounds so pathetic. I don't think…if I had a whole day to prepare, it probably would not come out any better."

Kingsley stood and stretched out an arm to try and pull Severus into a loose hug, but withdrew it as the other wizard flinched and stepped away. No wonder he had looked so fraught if all that anxiety had been building up inside him. He strolled to the other side of the room; leaning casually against wall in a non-threatening attitude, at what he hoped was a sufficiently safe distance from Severus. With some difficulty, he suppressed the relieved laugh which had tried to escape him on hearing the ranted causes of distress, as he realised that though the complaints were many, none of them were as serious as Snape seemed to think they were. In Kingsley's opinion, at least.

"One thing at a time," he began calmly. "Most importantly, I don't think you're pathetic. You have been talking about your emotions, which are never easy to discuss, except for those types of people who announce that they are 'in a sad place right now' then proceed to sit cross-legged on the rug and hum until they reach their 'happy place'." As Kingsley hoped, Snape sneered in spite of himself, showing that he was paying attention and not simply wallowing. "Emotional is the opposite of rational, I think you'll find, so just do your best at letting me know what's up." A sniff and a brisk nod encouraged Kingsley to proceed.

"Point one: the war is over and everything has changed. You're absolutely right. When we first slept together I was deep in a kind of personal crisis from having worked flat-out for two years without making any difference to the conflict situation. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that I was beginning to fall apart until our affair gave me something positive to hold onto. I grew attached to you almost immediately - partly because you are a fine person and my ideal kind of lover, but also, I am ashamed to confess, because you were there with physical and sexual comfort when I needed it most. I apologise if that makes me sound callous, but I won't lie to you."

Another stiff nod punctuated the confession, with a look of what the auror chose to interpret as one of cautious respect.

"You have changed too. I don't know if you've noticed the difference. You walk taller, your temper is less explosive, you're less clingy when we're in bed. You were always an elegant, commanding presence, but you've lost the nervy demeanour which used to remind me of a wildcat constantly prepared to scratch or bolt. In short, you no longer act like a man hunted by his shameful past. You act like one who cast himself into hell, spent most of his life fighting to climb out then finally succeeded. You've a great deal to be proud of, Severus."

Snape had turned to face the wall again, shoulders hunched protectively and head bent, either deliberately or unconsciously belying all he had just heard about visible self-esteem. It was hard to tell which.

"We both have a lot of adjusting to do and it might get difficult, but I like you, I like being with you and I think we've got nothing to lose by trying to stay together."

"What if we fail?" He snapped in response. "What if we discover hidden incompatibilities in three months' time!"

"Well, we will have tried our best, won't we?" reasoned Kingsley, wondering to himself whether Severus hated uncertainty because of his scientific nature, or because he was almost forty and had known little else. "Point two: marriage. Where the bloody hell did that come from?" An auror's dress robes were rather loose and flowing, leaving plenty of room for movement, yet Kingsley found he was tugging at his collar as though to give himself more air.

"Granger," Snape shrank even more, his voice dropping to a whisper. "She implied that now the law has changed to allow same-sex bonding that we ought…"

"You take orders from teenage schoolgirls now?" A sudden attack of the jitters brought Kingsley's well-buried sarcastic streak to the surface.

"No,…I…"

"Because I am not ready for making lifelong commitments yet, Severus," his voice grew fractionally louder. "You're great and my life is better with you in it, but I don't discuss that kind of thing with a man I've been seeing for a few weeks. OK?"

As he turned around, Severus looked so sheepish that Kingsley's flush of alarm evaporated immediately. With some chagrin, he remembered conversations with straight mates who had turned into unpredictable dragons when their girlfriends had mentioned the same dread word. Blinking away the reaction, alien to him but clearly instinctive to the male population at large, he wondered whether the changes in the law meant that gays everywhere were experiencing a newfound pressure which heterosexual men had suffered for centuries.

"OK," agreed Snape quietly, his eyes on the floor.

"Cohabitation," Kingsley cleared his throat and continued, trying to maintain a professional detachment this time. "You are Deputy Headmaster and Head of a House at a boarding school. I imagine you are required to stay in the castle during term-time?" Another short nod. "I don't believe either of us would be happy if I were to move into the dungeons. They are your personal domain and I prefer a light, airy environment like my penthouse by the river. Not to mention that I doubt even Molly Weasley would be able to persuade the parents that homosexual, unmarriedactivity officially happening on school premises was a good idea - my reputation would suffer along with yours. There is a difference between what is accepted by society and what should be held up as an example from the law-enforcement or teaching professions." A decidedly vehement nod.

"We have to leave something for the brats to rebel against," smirked Snape. Kingsley laughed and sat back down again, more than pleased when the potions master relaxed enough to do the same.

"Precisely. Oh, and don't forget, we have wildly differing tastes in interior decoration," he added mischievously, recalling the insults to which his favourite contemporary painting had been subjected.

"Next point: fidelity," Kingsley took a deep breath. "Are you seeing someone else?"

"No," the Deputy Head stiffened again.

"Neither am I, so let's not worry about that one. Which brings us on to…"

"I was not referring to two-timing," Snape interrupted very quietly, going slightly red. "My concerns lie in the area of more casual encounters."

"Don't tell me you go to the Kneazle's Whiskers?" Kingsley's attempts to keep the incredulity out of his voice failed completely. The clientele of the gay wizard's pub was split into two categories – the out-and-proud-of-it queens who called each other Honey and wore nail varnish, and the nervy polyjuiced closeters who bolted en masse for the back exit whenever an auror stepped over the threshold. He simply could not imagine Severus willingly spending time in such a dive.

"No. New York," Snape was avoiding his eyes again. "The muggle places, you know, where I met Anthony."

"Oh, yes," Kingsley wondered how he had forgotten that. "You like to escape the wizarding world."  
Snape stared at him defensively. "I always return to my responsibilities."

"I didn't mean…"

"I know," the interruption was soft and rather apologetic, delivered with a sigh.

"I don't want to rule your life," Kingsley tried to be reassuring. "I've never felt the need to completely possess anyone, nor to spend every waking moment hovering over them. I suppose I was envisioning a relationship where we see each other once a week or so, as is convenient with my shifts and your duties – perhaps a meal or a nice walk and then sleeping together. If a bit of tarting around keeps you happy, then I won't stop you."

Kingsley wondered if he had said the wrong thing when Severus let his head fall forward and buried his face in his hands. During the uncomfortable silence, he realised that he had been laying down the law rather ardently in his efforts to dispel his lover's ranted grievances. It was important to make sure they were both reading from the same potions recipe, but perhaps he should have been more circumspect. Had he really just indirectly called Professor Severus Snape, spy, ex-Death Eater and now Deputy Headmaster, a tart? He was about to begin back-tracking when the sharp and sallow face reappeared. Smiling.

"I am such a fool," said Snape, self-consciously. Relieved beyond belief, Kingsley covered the distance between them and pulled him up out of the chair for a hug.

"No," he said, after a moment's reassuring squeeze. "Life is moving very quickly. Not everyone has caught up yet."

Severus stared at him speculatively for a second, as though scanning for potential insults to his mental capabilities, or merely reminding himself of every contour between the square black jaw and the shining bald head. The very slowly, he leaned in and pressed their lips together.

"You ground me," Snape whispered.

"I did what?" Contentment disconnected the auror's brain temporarily. A musical chuckle against his cheek felt tickly and rather arousing, in the wake of the crisis.

"Your cool-headedness consistently brings my hysterical streak under control."

"You're not hysterical," he reached up and ran his hand through the soft, short hair, making Snape move closer. "Everyone at that blasted party was determined to give me their three knutsworth about our relationship, it was very trying. It's no wonder you were annoyed."

Heaving a huge sigh, he pulled away again.

"I am accustomed to my privacy, I should not have taken it out on you," he confessed.

"Understandable, under the circumstances. Now, the future all depends, Professor Snape, on which you consider to be more important," Kingsley pulled him back into his arms again. "What we think about our relationship, or what everyone else thinks?"

Snape smiled a proper, crinkly-eyed, beaming smile.

"I imagine you can make your own deductions on that dark mystery, Auror Shacklebolt," he said.

"Oh, and just for the record," Kingsley added. "I don't date freaks."

They both chuckled and Snape looked abashed. "But I _am_ lucky to have you because you are so fine and handsome," he said, matter-of-factly. "I stand by that."

…….

The memory of the intensive making-up session was all that kept the two wizards sane throughout the chaos of Dumbledore's informal retirement party. The pie-throwing contest quickly got out of hand and only some thorough shielding spells and well timed diving under tables spared them from the showers of custard. Albus, wearing a shiny rainbow party hat with a working helicopter blade on top (a gift from the Twins, naturally), whizzed around above everyone's heads, encouraging the misbehaviour and occasionally offering tips on how best to splatter someone. Minerva had thoughtfully conjured some suitably colourful underwear for him after the first parent had looked up and complained.

By the time he cranked up the decks and started MC-ing his disco set at such a loud volume the gargoyles began shuffling off the roof and scraping dejectedly towards the quiet of the dungeons, it was obvious to all that the old man was simply having the time of his life.

"I have to go," said Snape, extricating Kingsley from a highly competitive game of treacle bobbing with his nephew Joseph and Tonks, having tolerated the jollity for a few hours.

"Had enough, eh?" the auror smiled, scourgifying the thick gloop from his face.

"I've decided there is somewhere I need to be," he murmured, with a hint of grimness, or perhaps determination in his pursed, pale lips.

Kingsley wondered where he was going. Probably to the muggle cemetery where the amazing Anthony was buried, as he did whenever he needed to think. The habit of visiting a dead ex-lover's grave would have seemed rather morbid in anyone else, but it made sense that a man like Severus, with his closed nature and carefully measured distance from other living beings, should feel at home surrounded by the dead. Kingsley felt slightly guilty for thinking such things, but there was no denying the _rightness_ of his mental image of the dark-haired, dark-clad wizard, haunting a cemetery in preference to a castle thrumming with life and vivacious people on a warm summer evening.

As Snape turned to leave, the auror reached out a hand to hold him back.

"Wait," he said, voicing a thought as soon as it struck him. "I think I ought to go and pay my respects to Shastri. I'll ask Hagrid if he minds me taking some flowers. Will you get some too?" The noise and cheer of the revellers was suddenly too much for Kingsley, as well as for the Deputy Head. In the upheaval of the last week, he had almost forgotten the young woman who had died while under his care, while working towards making the world a better place. Fudge had blathered on about honouring the sacrifice of the fallen and much as it troubled him to agree with the short-sighted bureaucrat, this time he had a valid point.

"Yes," Snape had hesitated a moment before answering, making Kingsley wonder if Anthony had not been a 'flowers' type of guy.

Hagrid was delighted to help, walking them round to the South side of the castle where a cacophony of colour blazed all around one of the small walled gardens. Dahlias of red, orange, yellow, pink, purple and a hundred other shades, shaped in either perfectly-sculpted spheres or ragged blooms with messy spidery petals, bobbed erratically in the breeze like the ill-coordinated dancing at the garden party. No system seemed to have been applied to group them by variety, size or colour, leaving each stunning plant clamouring for attention with its equally garish neighbours. There was only one possible word for it.

"Wow," said Kingsley. Hagrid beamed.

"They're pretty, ain't they?" he made no attempt to hide the pride shining from his face. "It was my idea. So many people have been askin' fer flowers to put on graves or to put next to sickbeds I thought I'd plant plenty fer 'em to choose from, and if we were lucky and they weren't needed, they could still brighten up the castle!"

"Most…breathtaking," Snape managed, his sparse tastes clearly alarmed by the concentrated vividness of little garden.

"Thanks, Perfessor," the groundskeeper smiled even wider at what he took to be a compliment.

Kingsley surveyed the amazing display and wondered where to begin.

"Pink," he decided at last, remembering his colleague's desk, always strewn with pink-rimmed photo frames, chewed pink quills and her enormous pink leather handbag. "Shastri used to love pink."

Hagrid silently watched him choosing a selection of pinkish flowers before bending down to grab a few odd weeds infiltrating the edges of the beds.

"To go on a grave, then?" he asked quietly. Kingsley nodded, glancing over to where Snape was extracting the few pure white blooms scattered in amongst the colour with scientific precision. The sight made him chuckle for a second.

"Yes," he answered, mockingly. "The esteemed Minister advised us not to forget the dead. I am doing as I am told!"

"Very good, very good," Hagrid snorted, some sadness in the humour flashing from his enormous eyes. "They replayed his great long speech on the wireless for those of us not important enough to attend the dinner. Not that I'd've wanted to go, judging by what Harry told me. I'm not an intelligent person, as yeh know, but it seemed to me that he waffled on a lot about lookin' after the dead, but not a great deal about lookin' after the living."

Arms full with his fresh bouquet, Kingsley was taken aback once more by the casual way in which Hagrid always hit the nail on the head with his direct pronouncements. On the opposite side of the garden, he noticed Severus standing up to his waist in flowers like some demonic fairy princess, scowling as he also digested this new pearl of wisdom.

"I think that's enough, now," he thought aloud, conjuring a paper wrapper as a finishing touch. Turning around to thank Hagrid and wish Snape good-evening, he noticed a spark of something flicker in his eye. The Deputy Head beckoned him over and, in full view of the least discreet wizard to ever set foot on Hogwarts' grounds, grabbed Kingsley's shirt front and pulled him into a bruising kiss.

When the world stopped spinning, Kingsley blinked until his vision cleared and tried to wipe the sappy expression off his face.

"See you later," announced Snape, not entirely chastely.

"Bye," Kingsley beamed. He stole a glance at Hagrid, who looked as though he had just discovered a new species of lethally irritable dragon breeding in his shed.

"So… 's'true then, is it? About you two?" he asked, looking teary with delight.

"Yes," answered Snape, smiling openly and sounding very pleased with himself. "'S'true."

Hagrid took out a large, hairy handkerchief and blew his nose with a honk.

Kingsley walked to the gates without his feet touching the floor. His normally shy lover had not only acknowledged their relationship in public, but had given him a full-on snog in front of a witness. Fighting the urge to punch the air, he contented himself with whistling one of those songs about how great life is and grinning to himself, reliving the thrill of seeing Severus so proud to be his. After the shock of the previous day's conversation, it was a very welcome development.

Turning his attention to the task ahead, he straightened his face and took a deep breath. There would be no cause for jubilation in the place where he was headed. Focussing his mind, body and magic on a street he had visited once before in Bradford, he apparated South.

-Crack-.

Five minutes to his left was the West Riding Wizarding cemetery, where Shastri lay at peace since the start of the summer, as oblivious to the bad developments as the good. Directly in front of him was an immaculately painted brown front door.

The dead and the living.

It had been in this place that Kingsley had come closest to nervous breakdown – first when the bereaved mother had calmly offered him tea as though nothing serious had happened, then at the post-funeral gathering, when the only emotion Shastri's aged grandfather had shown had been pride in her fatal choice of career. Knowing that both had merely been covering their complete devastation in the best way they knew had done nothing to lessen his own horror. He felt a sliver of it rise in his throat now, but, tempered with the knowledge that her murderers had been vanquished, many at his own hands, and that the future was looking promising for those young people who had managed to survive, the grasping constriction of panic and guilt no longer threatened to suffocate him.

That summer he had suffered a mental wound, he realised, still able to twinge occasionally, but no longer life-threatening.

The dead and the living. Which needed him most?

He knocked on the door and a tiny Asian woman with Severus and Shastri's striking dark eyes answered, smiling slightly when she recognised him.

"Mrs Khalili, I hope I'm not intruding," he said, offering the flowers. "I though I would just pop round and see how you are doing."

"Yes, yes. Come in," she pulled him over the threshold, asking automatically: "Cup of tea?"

Kingsley knew that his recovery was complete when he was able to answer without emotion.

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

…….

Making his way off the school grounds for his own visit, Severus noticed Lupin sitting alone in his wheelchair in a quiet part of the gardens, probably enjoying the silence. For once, Potter was not in attendance in his new capacity as babysitter, so he took the opportunity to stalk over.

As Snape approached, Lupin rolled his head erratically and gargled a greeting.

"You can knock off the theatricals," he snapped, his glare boring into the werewolf. "I know you're faking all this palsy nonsense. I cannot even begin to comprehend why."

Spasm turned to shock, which turned to sheepishness as Remus realised he had been caught out. He chewed his lower lip and Snape, enjoying his discomfort, pressed his advantage. "This war has certainly had a profound effect on society if it has managed to turn the shyest Gryffindor alumnus into a deceitful attention-seeker."

"How did you guess?" asked Lupin, glancing around to make sure no one else could see him holding a normal conversation.

"Your earlier spasm when Miss Granger was torturing me was a little too well-timed," he curled his upper lip as he spoke, but there was a hint of admiration in his voice. "I am grateful for that deliverance, by the way."

"Ignore her. She's just happy it's all over."

"As are we all, though I fail to understand the sudden need for interference in the private lives of others," Snape replied icily. "But I do not believe you have answered my question. To what do we owe these most entertaining daily displays of thespianism? Is it not enough to have scores of people running around every month accommodating your genuine sickness?"

"It's for Harry," Lupin sighed deeply, ignoring the barb. "I _was_ badly injured in Little Hangleton and I couldn't control my body and speech. It was awful at first, with everyone treating me like a fool just because it took me a long time to express myself and I couldn't stop dribbling over everything. Harry volunteered to take care of me, and we would talk for hours – or rather, he would talk and I would slur the right kind of noises periodically. Then the war ended and I realised that he was confiding secrets in me, probably because the conversations were so one-sided and it felt safer speaking to me because I couldn't lecture him on how brave he had been, or how all his suffering didn't matter anymore because You-know-who was dead."

Snape snorted violently.

"How typical of his so-called friends to expect him to experience kidnap, violence and murder, then be cheerful afterwards," he spat.

"Well, yes, that's exactly the problem," Lupin appeared startled at the perceptive exclamation, and continued his narrative with a more respectful air towards his former classmate. "But my main concern is the pressure he is under to make decisions about his future. He's seriously considering leaving school, perhaps taking a break before returning to complete his NEWT year later, and he's been inundated with offers. Fudge wants him at the Ministry, the Unspeakables have been making overtures, at least three Quidditch teams have invited him to try out as Seeker, a couple of trashy authors have asked for permission to ghost-write his autobiography – though I suppose if he refuses they'll do it anyway – and Hermione seems to be trying to start a relationship. There's too much going on! Everyone is expecting him to just field all of this confusion and come out smiling! I can see in people's faces that they are expecting him to spend the rest of his life doing amazing things, even those who really love him and have supported him since the beginning.

"He needs stability right now, and some time to recuperate after everything, not to be treated like a freak show. I know he disliked his muggle relatives intensely, but he still spent ten formative years living with them. Their deaths must have had an effect on him at some level, even if it's only guilt that he shouldn't think ill of the dead.

"I woke up four days ago completely cured and in control again, thanks to some excellent potions, but then I had a thought. If Harry no longer had the excuse of taking care of me, he might be tempted to give in to the pressure and do something crazy which he might regret later, just to please others. He's a teenage boy for Merlin's sake, not a source of popular entertainment!"

Never in a million years had Snape expected to hear that sentiment from the lifetime president of the Potter Fan Club. With some effort he restrained himself from jumping up and down on the spot and screaming that he had been aware of what the brat was and was not from the moment he stepped into the Great Hall to be sorted, had anyone else ever bothered to listen. Instead, he hurried the werewolf on with his rambling story.

"Then why not sit down and offer advice? Why resort to such underhand tactics to manipulate a wizard about whom you profess to care so much?"

"There are already enough people telling him what to do," Remus huffed. "And most of them shout louder than me. If I can only buy him a few more weeks of quiet and routine with me here at Hogwarts then he might stand a chance of recovering his wits before dashing off to do something stupid. And," he gave a self-conscious little smirk at his own daring, "It's really rather fun, fooling everyone while being waited on hand and foot."

It was a preposterous plan. Devious, cunning, resourceful and utterly, utterly brilliant.

"Good grief, Lupin," Snape frowned with grudging admiration for the only survivor of the four Marauders. "We may make a Slytherin of you yet."

Anticipating consternation or outright offence, the darker man was stunned when Remus looked up at him with an expression of intense smugness.

"Thanks," he said.

It was going to be a very interesting new term.

…….

Apparating to his destination, Snape was astounded to find himself in the strangest centre of human habitation he had ever beheld.

All around him, identical, square red-brick houses stretched as far as the eye could see, each with an identical, immaculately-manicured lawn and a shiny car on the small patch of tarmac next to it.

Why on earth would muggles choose to live like this? he wondered, gazing at the beds of insipid and geometrically sculpted hedges jealously guarding the boundaries of each tiny kingdom. Perhaps there was no choice. Perhaps houses there was a reason they all had to cram together in these unimaginative little boxes. Snape had never owned a house so had no idea. He had grown up in his father's ancestral castle, then at Hogwarts, and then had visited Malfoy Manor, the most sinister and filthy house of Black, Rosier Court and a handful of wizarding dwellings, all of which were the size of this whole street. Merlin, even the Weasleys' Burrow was palatial in comparison.

He ought not to criticise, he chided himself. Muggles may well feel safest crowded together like this, having scant means of protection against the more dangerous aspects of life. Subconsciously fingering the wand in his pocket, as though afraid it might vanish at any moment in the oddness of this alien country, he clung grimly to his bouquet of white dahlias and walked up the road.

Before he reached his destination, he noticed a break in the string of uniform homes and stopped dead when he realised what it was. Separating number two and number six was an eight foot high security fence, shielding the devastated property in between from casual view. Around the perimeter a piece of blue and white plastic tape bobbed in the breeze, proclaiming "Police: Do Not Cross".

So this was where Potter had grown up, where his relatives had died.

A few bunches of flowers had been laid on the pavement next to the hoarding, with cryptic message cards attached to their wrapping, reading "Dearest Petunia, we will miss you, from all at the LW Ladies' Bridge Club" or "Big-D, Nothing's the same anymore. Polk."

He was so absorbed in pondering the fate of this family, whose only crime had been to be related to Potter, that he failed to notice he was not alone until he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"They didn't treat Harry very well," it said. "But they never deserved this."

"You are correct. So many casualties of war are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time," he replied, without moving.

"At least it's all finished now. You played a big part in ending it."

"Thank you," he finally turned around to look at Mrs Figg. With her carpet slippers and string bag, her whole frame looked saggy and lived-in, as though she had been an old lady all her life. Yet again he tried to imagine her as the sly young temptress of his mother's diatribes, romping around the Moors with his father, but yet again the image refused to come.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, looking slightly troubled by his unexpected presence in her quiet muggle street.

"I came to see you," his voice almost held up, only croaking slightly at the end.

She looked startled, then faintly curious.

"So, the flowers…?" she glanced down.

"…are for you," he held them out, wishing his clumsy attempt to heal the past didn't feel so ridiculous. "I should quite like to talk with you, if you don't mind. About my…about Tristan."

The dead and the living. Here he was, caught between the two in the place where three people died, using his late father's memory to try and comprehend his living mistress, the bogeywoman of his childhood. Laying the ghosts of the past was a good way to start founding a future. Or so he hoped.

He refused to resort to occlumency to try and decipher the slightly pained, slightly hopeful expression on her face as she accepted the peace offering from the person whose birth had brought an end to her happiness with the man she loved. They both swallowed in unison, awkward and embarrassed at being faced with each other after such a history.

"Well. They're very nice. Um. You'd better come in," She waved a hand towards one of the identikit houses on the other side of the road, staring searchingly at him, probably trying to find echoes of his father. Then she added, with the vaguest hint of affection: "I hope you don't mind cats?"

…….

…….

_1st September. 7pm._

The new first years chattered and gasped their way through the entrance hall, sniggering at their new uniforms and trying to keep track of each other's names. Most were tired from the long train journey but had rallied on reaching the castle, excited by the lake, the giant squid and the disconcerting but kindly bulk of Hagrid. Their eyes were almost popping out at the magical splendour of Hogwarts. The ghosts nodded, the pictures bowed, a suit of armour saluted with a clang, making half of them jump. The jolly throng reached the foot of the stairs up to the Great Hall and looked up.

A girl screamed.

Thirty-one little faces took in the sight before them. A solitary figure, clad in a billowing black cloak which pooled dramatically around its feet, stood with folded arms at the top of the steps. Flinty black eyes glared maliciously out from behind the greasy strands of a jet black fringe, a long, hooked nose ended just above the most frightening thin-lipped smirk they had ever beheld.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," sneered Snape in a voice which could have frozen Hades.

He almost purred with satisfaction two of the boys simultaneously burst into tears.

It was getting on for two o'clock by the time the last homesick brat had finally fallen asleep in their unfamiliar new dorm, clutching one of the stuffed toys which had been treated with a special mixture of calming fragrances. Snape had only just resisted the temptation to add half a shot of firewhisky to the evening cocoa, though he had taken two points – from his own house! – when the new little Bulstrode asked how one went about getting Potter's autograph.

He shrugged off his outer robe and began working his way through his buttons when he noticed the package standing on his night-table, with a small note attached to the front. It was heavy. He opened the letter first.

_Thought you might need some of this after the first night back._

_See you on Sunday._

_K x_

The box contained a rather excellent bottle of claret.

THE END.

…….

AN: I finished it! Yay! I can't believe I actually finished it, after 17 months! (Does the dance of the extremely smug author).

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed this fic and been so supportive, especially during the dodgy parts in the middle where HBP blew so much of this story out of the water. It was really hard to keep writing once I knew I had much of Severus' background badly wrong. Your comments kept me going. I also appreciate those who have stayed interested despite the long gaps between updates – it's really kind of you to keep the faith.

With love, Snape's Nightie, at her desk at work, 22nd August 2006. x


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